The Lord Hongli’s Desperation

"I… I can help!" Chengyu gasped through gritted teeth, meeting the guard's suspicious gaze with a determined stare. He brought a hand to cradle his face, feeling his cheek swell. His entire body trembled, but not from fear. Instead, he felt the urgent need to act.

"Help?" said Lord Hongli, voice thin with desperation. His fists clenched at his sides, and Chenyu thought that powerlessness did not sit well on the shoulders of a leader. Sounding utterly defeated, he conceded. "I don't see why we shouldn't try. They shall die regardless of our actions. Why not add another casualty should he fail?"

The guard scoffed, but released his grip nonetheless, stepping aside. Led by the hurried shuffle of silken robes, he approached the pair of stricken women lying prostrate upon the cold, marble floor, breathing shallow whispers against the silence. Their faces were pale, lips tinged with blue, but they were not yet dead. It was as if death had kissed them, sealing a promise to whisk them away.

Chengyu's mind raced, recalling fragments of ancient medicine, antidotes whispered in texts he had studied for curiosity rather than necessity.

"Thank you," Chengyu said, his voice softening. "I can help, but tell me what happened."

"I am afraid to say, but it must be a poisoning," one of the nearby attendants whispered, her eyes wide as saucers, her words wrapped in despair. "Lady Yuehua and her poison taster, Suyin… Although Suyin tasted the meal, they both collapsed moments after consuming it. We do not know who—"

"Poison?" Chengyu echoed, his mind already racing through symptoms and antidotes, drawing from the ancient texts he'd studied with such fervor. He knelt beside the stricken figures, noting the faint pulse at Yuehua's throat, the shallow breaths that barely stirred her chest. Time was slipping through his fingers like fine sand.

"Please, you must save her" another voice implored, belonging to a trembling courtier. "She is Lord Hongli's treasure, his only daughter, heir to his empire."

Yuehua's attendant, Suyin, lay equally still, her servant's garb a stark contrast to the opulence of Yuehua's attire. Chengyu's eyes flitted between the two, his medical acumen peeling back layers of possibilities with each passing second.

"Is there anything unusual you remember before this occurred?" Chengyu asked, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts whirling inside him. "Anything at all?"

"Nothing," the maid replied, her voice laced with uncertainty. "The banquet was perfect until…"

"Until it wasn't," Chengyu finished for her, his mind constructing and deconstructing theories. He couldn't allow panic to cloud his judgment, not when lives hung in the balance.

He felt their eyes on him, the weight of expectation pressing down like a physical force. But within him, too, was the pulsing thrill of challenge, the sacred dance between knowledge and mystery.

First, he moved to Yuehua. As painful as it was to admit, she would take priority; the stakes were higher than any he had faced before. Failure here meant the loss of life and the extinguishing of Lord Hongli's newfound trust—a trust that, if fostered, could later be exploited. He could not, would not, lose his only chance at survival in this world.

As he looked down at her, Chengyu saw that her beauty was a pale echo beneath the shadow of death. As his fingers brushed against her wrist, he felt her pulse fluttering like a caged bird. Still, the faint thrum of life remained beneath her skin. To preserve it, he thought of the countless hours spent poring over dusty books and webpages, the silent companionship of herbs and potions that now whispered their secrets to him.

"Stay with me," he murmured, half to himself and half to the fading spirit of the young woman before him. At that moment, there existed only he and her bound together by the slender thread of hope. "Someone, fetch me hot water, and whatever herbs you have."

Quickly, as if this had been anticipated, a servant slammed into the door in her haste, nearly spilling the contents of the tray she was carrying. Recovering instantly, she bounced back and stumbled to the table, kneeling to present an array of items.

"Are you certain these will suffice?" Lord Hongli intoned, skepticism etched into the furrows of his brow as he watched Chengyu survey the tools. "They are objects, not remedies."

"Certainty is a luxury afforded only in retrospect," Chengyu replied, not lifting his gaze from Yuehua's pallid face. "The efficacy of our efforts lies in understanding, not in the tools themselves." His hands fluttered to the girl's lips, now a shade paler than the moonlight that filtered through rice paper screens.

"Understanding what?" an attendant dared to ask, her voice a quivering leaf on the wind.

"Nature," he said, his mind was a tapestry of images: pages of text, the curve of an apothecary's flask, the scent of medicinal herbs at dawn. "Patterns. The invisible threads that bind us."

Chengyu's fingers skimmed over the array of archaic items laid before him, his mind racing to adapt his knowledge to the tools at hand. The girl's pulse under his touch was a weak stammer, her breaths shallow and labored. Even if he didn't know what he was doing, he couldn't allow himself to hesitate for even a moment.

"Keep them awake while I work," Chengyu ordered, his hands moving with practiced precision to check their vitals, an improvised dance of diagnosis in the absence of modern tools. "Talk to them, anything to tether them to consciousness."

His fingers danced with an alchemist's precision. With an earthenware pestle, he crushed dried leaves into a rough powder, releasing their musky and foreign essence into the air. He mixed it with water fetched in a copper basin, creating a rudimentary antidote.

"Swallow this," he coaxed, his voice firm yet gentle, as he lifted Yuehua's head and brought the rim of the bowl to her lips. His eyes never strayed from her glazed-over ones, watching for any sign of improvement or distress.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the heavy drapes and dim lanterns casting a subdued glow on the anxious faces around him. Lord Hongli stood rigid, his broad shoulders casting an imposing shadow, while attendants hovered like specters waiting for fate to unfold.

Yuehua wheezed, then released a shuddering breath. Leaning over, she began expelling whatever foul concoction she had almost inhaled. All present immediately launched into raucous cheers, and Chengyu was soon knocked out of the way, replaced by Lord Hongli. He held his daughter, a single tear dripping down his face.

Chengyu moved to Suyin next, repeating the process. Her recovery received no such reaction, but he stepped aside to allow another servant to tend for her. With their worries soothed, he resolved to call a larger issue to attention.

Yet again, it seemed he would be laying his life on the line.

"Everyone!" Chengyu's voice suddenly boomed, reverberating against the walls of the banquet hall. "This feast must come to a halt!"

A collective gasp rose from the assembled guests as confusion rippled through the room like a disturbed pond. Servants halted mid-step, plates of delicacies held aloft; nobles paused, chopsticks halfway to their lips.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Hongli's voice thundered, his eyes a stormcloud of disapproval.

"Pardon my brashness, Lord Hongli," Chengyu said, turning to the assembly. "But given how the guards have yet to move from their post near the doors, that means no one has slithered out yet. It means we still have the poisoner lingering among us, and I intend to find them."

His thoughts spun a web of possibilities, each more sinister than the last. The culprit was close, and as history had showed him, treachery thrived in intimacy's garden.

Suspicion descended upon the table like a heavy cloak, each glance carrying the weight of accusation. Chengyu could sense the fear and curiosity tangling in the air, could almost see the tendrils of thought as they reached out, seeking the truth in the spaces between people.

I didn't think I'd get this far, Chengyu blanched.

"Uh…" he stalled, desperately searching for an idea. "We should answer this one burning question! Where did the poison come from? Or rather, who?" Chengyu asked, turning towards the whispering cluster of women who were eyeing each other with a mix of fear and accusation.

"Check the personal effects," one brave soul suggested, her voice quivering.

"Right! I'll inspect all of you," he declared, "because the guilty party will carry evidence of their crime. And if not physical, it shall… Present in the soul! Besides an apothecary, I am a master of… Of foretelling lies! I was blind as an infant, yet gifted divine sight by the gods!"

Repressing a sigh, Chengyu wondered why he was building upon lie after unfeasible lie. He was already pushing his luck without claiming to have divine powers. Perhaps if this trajectory continued, he'd be able to scam some money out of them.

Lord Hongli looked on with intrigue, his stare daring Chengyu to falter. One misstep and heads would roll. Still, with a wave of his hand, he agreed to the notion.

One by one, the attendants lined up. Some more were called from the kitchens to be scrutinized, and with them all lined up, staring through wide eyes and tears, Chengyu realized he no longer knew what he was doing.

Yet their expressions, then possessions, were examined under his discerning eye. Everyone seemed moderately frightful, careful not to act in a way that would arouse suspicion. He tried to recall the methods he'd seen in detective dramas, but he only recalled miscellaneous facts about body language. Oh well; that would have to suffice, because it was not long before he came upon a young woman, her hands shaking ever so slightly, hovering near her mid-section. The rest of her was still, almost deathly so, like she herself had been paralyzed.

Discreetly glancing, he noticed the sash holding her robes together at the waist had the slightest bulge, almost as if it was purposefully folded to make a pocket. Chengyu tried not to linger.

To ensure she wouldn't attempt to hide it or cause a scene, he walked up and down the line several more times, gaze unfaltering. He wondered what to do, but the longer he had to think, the more time he left her to think up a lie.

As he walked the line a final time, he approached her and steeled his mind for his following action.

Forgive my impertinence, Chengyu thought. Without so much as pausing, he reached, grabbing the sash. He met resistance and cries of fury as he pulled. Nevertheless, he tugged until her robes came undone. He kept his gaze on the ground as shrill screams filled the air.

He dove and reached for something falling and just barely managed to grab it before it hit the ground—a vial hidden beneath her waistband, tucked into a careful fold.

"Here," Chengyu declared, holding the vial aloft for all to see. Peculiarly, it nearly looked unused. "This contains traces of nightshade, a poison most subtle and deadly."

The girl dropped to the floor, her knees knocking against each other. Clutching her robes, she her voice dropped to a whisper. Her eyes widened in terror.

"My Lord, I swear, it is not as it seems," she protested, but her voice was a reed against the tide of judgment.

"Jealousy can poison more than just the heart," Chengyu mused aloud, his gaze never leaving the trembling attendant. He knew well the tales of rivalry among those who served, how ambition could curdle into malice.

There was a stunned silence, then a stern, commandeering voice.

"Take her away," Lord Hongli commanded, his words slicing through the cacophony of murmurs. Guards moved to obey, their armored forms a stark reminder of the line between order and chaos. They permitted the girl to retie her robes, then promptly hauled the screaming girl away. In her struggle, she knocked over several tables, sending cutlery clattering to the floor. With a slam of the doors, her fate was sealed.

How terrible, thought Chengyu, that I would be the one who did that. Guess everything good has its downsides.

As the room settled into a stunned silence, he allowed himself a moment of stillness, the aftermath of urgency leaving a bitter taste behind. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to lonely walks through the woods to search for herbs, though, at the time, he hadn't known what those were. He thought of the laughter of his peers echoing down empty corridors, to a life spent in the pursuit of forgotten knowledge.

"Thank you," a soft voice broke through his reverie. It was Yuehua, whose eyes fluttered open, her gaze soon landing upon Chengyu.

"Your well-being is thanks enough," he said with a bow.

The air suddenly felt stale and a hushed panic swept over the attendants.

"He spoke to Lady Yuehua."

"Surely the Lord Hongli will have his head!"

The chamber was a theatre of whispers, where each hushed syllable wove through the air like incense smoke. Chengyu stood at its heart, his fingers still tinged with the residue of herbs and antidotes. The weight of Lord Hongli's dragon-eyed gaze upon him was as tangible as the silken tapestries adorning the walls.

"His knowledge has saved my daughter," Lord Hongli declared, his voice resonant within the confines of the hall. Then, in a quieter yet still firm tone, he turned to Chengyu and dipped his head ever so slightly. "You have my gratitude, Apothecary Chengyu."

Heads turned, eyes wide with a mixture of respect and disbelief. It was a sound sweeter than any symphony to Chengyu's ears, the acknowledgment of his worth beyond the dusty tomes and ancient scrolls he so often kept company with.

"Thank you, Lord Hongli," Chengyu replied, dropping into a deep bow. His humility was a cloak he wore easily, yet beneath it, his spirit soared.

"Make no mistake, your actions will be rewarded," Lord Hongli continued, lifting a hand to silence any further discourse.

"Chengyu," the voice that now addressed him was softer, imbued with the tremulous quality of one who had looked into the abyss and stepped back from its edge. Yuehua sat up, her face pale but for the faint bloom of life returning to her cheeks.

"Lady Yuehua," he started, turning to face her. Even in her weakened state, she was gorgeous enough to rival the Four Beauties of Ancient China. "How may I be of service?"

Her lips curved into a smile that seemed to chase away the lingering traces of death's specter. "I request nothing more. You have returned me more than my life today."

At that moment, as her gratitude enveloped him, Chengyu knew that every scornful laugh, every dismissive glance from those who deemed his passions trivial, was a small price to pay. They could never understand the fierce joy of discovery, the triumph of unraveling history's tightly coiled secrets, the salvation found in the endless pursuit of knowledge, no matter how trivial the fact.

Her smile is the most precious thing, Chengyu affirmed, and in his heart, he believed it. He could spend lifetimes chronicling the past, mixing poultices, and deciphering the language of plants, but nothing would compare to this—the saving of a life, the earning of a bond forged through crisis.

"Then, you, the mysterious youth," Lord Hongli said, clearing his throat, "I pray you shall lend me that quick mind and attentive eye again. There is much one could wish to learn from you."

The room faded, the courtiers and their machinations reduced to mere shadows. For Chengyu, there was only the promise of a future.

"I am Zhang Chengyu, sir. And nothing would give me greater pleasure," he vowed, and this time his voice was steady, sure. It was the voice of a man who had found his place in the vast tapestry of life—a once lonesome scholar whose love for the arcane would forge him a place in the very fabric of history.