4. The Strange Land

7 August 1994

[Yongqi's POV]

"Dong—dong—dong!"

The sharp pulse of the night watch drum rang across Jing Yang Palace.

"Fifth Watch—dawn approaches!" the watchman called out from beyond the gates.

I had already risen well before the call. The flickering candlelight accompanied me as I reviewed my lessons — quiet recitation of classics in preparation for the day ahead.

Today marked the Zhongyuan Festival. Despite the day's ceremonial weight, Mother Consort held firm in her expectations. Not a single lesson was to be omitted, nor a stroke of the brush neglected. In accordance with her instructions, Eunuch Li had been sent to oversee my morning preparations.

"Your Highness," he intoned respectfully, "this humble servant has prepared the study table with fresh xuan paper and inkstone. Today's tasks include recitations from Qian Jia Shi (Poems of One Thousand Masters) and the Li Ji (Book of Rites)." 

As a junior eunuch assisted me into my study robes, Eunuch Li continued,

"Grand Tutor Eertai will personally oversee today's studies."

I exhaled slowly. Grand Tutor Eertai — the most senior scholar of the Imperial College — was renowned for his unforgiving discipline. A man of unyielding principle, he could reduce even seasoned officials to trembling silence.

"Very well," I said, rising to my feet.

My thoughts turned to the day's burden: the full course of lessons to be completed before the ceremonial rites of Zhongyuan began.

On ordinary days, such assignments were due by evening meal.

But today, the deadline was set before noon.

"I can do it. It's all in the mind," I muttered, massaging my temples to chase away the headache forming behind my eyes. "If my calligraphy is neat and my tones sharp, perhaps Father Emperor will be pleased."

I followed Eunuch Li towards the direction of Wenhua Hall for my studies. Today, he chose a slightly different shortcut, leading me through the inner residential gates and along the western corridors.

"The vegetables! Where are the vegetables from Liangjiang? They were supposed to arrive last night!" a sharp voice rang out ahead.

Another snapped, "Move faster, or the midday offerings won't be ready! Do you want the Emperor and all the consorts going hungry?"

A metal pot clattered to the floor.

"Useless! Who dropped that? Get out — now!"

We passed a side courtyard off the main kitchen compound. Inside, chaos reigned. Cooks, scullions, and eunuchs rushed in a storm of motion, preparing the offerings for the Zhong Yuan rites at noon. Senior cooks barked orders. Junior eunuchs scurried like startled ants, balancing towering baskets of ingredients and platters of carved fruit shaped like lotus blossoms. Some scrubbed ceremonial tables while others tallied the harvest tributes arriving from each province. 

At the centre, the chief of kitchen staff, his brow slick with sweat, conferred hastily with a younger steward.

"Every tribute from the provinces must be accounted for — Guangdong, Jiangsu, Shanxi, all of it. Is the register complete?"

"Yes, Chief. The tribute dishes and daily Imperial meals are separated. Nothing's missing," his deputy replied.

"Good. We can't afford for heads to roll."

The chief turned and caught sight of me. Immediately, he bowed low. "Fifth Prince."

I gave a small nod and moved on, the chaos of the kitchen still ringing in my ears. As we continued on, Eunuch Li said nothing, but I could feel his subtle message. Everything — every plum, scroll, and brushstroke — mattered today.

And the pressure to get it right… fell squarely on my shoulders.

The Imperial College was reserved for princes and the sons of aristocratic families, with the finest tutors in the dynasty recruited to teach there. But within the Forbidden City, most lessons were held in Wenhua Hall, which served as the inner court's academy for imperial princes and the highest nobility. It was here that the empire's most esteemed scholars were summoned to instruct the next generation.

As I stepped inside, I flinched. Grand Tutor Eertai was already there, pacing before the polished desks, hands clasped behind his back, the fingers of his right hand tapping rhythmically against his left wrist.

"I've arrived nearly two ke (30 minutes) early, haven't I?" I asked Eunuch Li.

"Indeed, Your Highness," he replied with a faint smile.

I let out a breath. At least I was the first to arrive. Bowing politely to the Grand Tutor, I took my seat at the front.

Time blurred. Before long, the watch drum sounded — signaling the approach of wu shi, the noon hour.

"Peace calls for an edict to return. I shall personally remove the General's armour," I recited the final verse of Qian Jia Shi to Grand Tutor Eertai.

"Very well, Fifth Prince. I am pleased with your diligence today," Grand Tutor Eertai nodded.

"Fifth Prince, we must proceed to prepare for the rites," Eunuch Li reminded me.

"Dong... dong... dong..." The solemn beat of the ceremonial drums echoed through the palace grounds. Father Emperor was already stationed before the ancestral altar, the table laid with offerings — whole fowl, roasted boar, exotic fruits, and bundles of rare vegetables from every province.

I hastened to take my place, offering brief bows to the other Princes already assembled.

The Zhong Yuan rites were reserved strictly for the males of the Imperial household — a solemn duty to report the year's harvest to our ancestors and beseech their blessings for the coming year. For the ladies of the harem, this day offered a rare chance to glimpse and speak with their birth sons, many of whom had been raised by higher-ranking consorts or moved into the Prince Quarters, far from their mothers' reach.

With heavy eyelids, I struggled to hold my posture as the rituals stretched into the evening.

Here I was again, in that strange land. It wasn't the same as before. And yet, unmistakably, I had returned. The last thing I remembered was drifting to sleep after dinner with Mother Consort.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the day...

Or perhaps it was the Zhong Yuan gateway itself when the veil thins, and the gates of hell swing open.

The smell of burning paper greeted me first. Not smoke from hearth fires or ceremonial censers but something sharsher, more acrid. It rose in thick curls from metal barrels placed before a Daoist temple, while strangers milled about, entirely unbothered.

I blinked.

Turning slowly, I tried to make sense of what lay before me. People of every height, skin colour, and build moved freely among each other — some with hair the shade of fire, others with dark curls or pale golden skin. There were those who resembled Han people, but many who did not. And still, they laughed, talked, and traded in strange tones as though they belonged to the same country.

Even more bewildering was the sight of their sacred halls. A Daoist temple stood beside a building with pointed arches and strange crescent carvings. Not far beyond, another structure rose, its walls inlaid with colourful panes of glass that caught the sun like gemstones. People paused before them, bowed their heads, or entered quietly, as if they were temples too, though unlike any I had ever seen. Places of worship, side by side?

How was that possible?

In the Great Qing, temples and altars were arranged by imperial decree, segregated by rank, clan, and domain. But here… even the gods seemed to dwell as neighbours.

I narrowed my gaze at the red banner stretched across the temple gate. I could make out the characters: "Zhong Yuan Festival." And yet, the brushstrokes were strange — too flat, too rounded. The meaning remained, but the form was… incorrect. No. Crude. Had the scribes here forgotten how to wield a brush? Beneath it, letters of a foreign script wriggled like dancing snakes, indecipherable to the eye.

No Manchu script.

No imperial seal.

No clan markings.

What sort of country was this?

I scanned the people again, noting the absence of uniform or official hat. Who held the Mandate of Heaven in this land? Or was there still a ruler somewhere, hidden behind an invisible throne?

I must seek him. I must learn what policies allow these many people to live together in peace. If I could return with that knowledge, perhaps… perhaps Father Emperor could use it to strengthen harmony within our own frontiers. The outer provinces… the restless tribes…

Yes.

This is knowledge worthy of the Dragon Throne.

To the side, I spotted a stage — wooden, raised, and flanked by empty rows of chairs. Behind them, people gathered in loose clumps, some sipping from strange, weightless cups that bent as they drank. Others pointed toward the actors now taking their places on stage.

And then… I saw it.

The opera began.

Their costumes blazed with colour, their faces painted with exquisite detail. Every movement was precise, and their voices soared with startling clarity. Just when I thought the spectacle had reached its peak, the backdrop changed before my eyes.

Changed!

I clutched my robes, eyes wide.

What had I just witnessed?

What sorcery was this?

What strange mechanism controlled the canvas?

A female performer stepped forward, dressed in crimson wedding robes, her voice rising in the soft, mournful lilt of a southern province's tongue:

"Lok fa mun tin bai yuet guong… jie yat bui fu jin fung toi seong…"

Her sleeves swirled like clouds. Her headdress shimmered beneath the lights.

I stood motionless.

This… this was art unlike anything I had ever seen. The colour. The texture. The command of the stage…

Father Emperor must see this.

If this was what even a commoner stage could achieve in this strange land, then we were falling behind. The Grand Theatre in the Inner Court — even with its painted courtesans and finest instruments — could not rival this brilliance.

I straightened. This was no longer a curiosity. It was a warning. If we do not learn from these people, the Great Qing will remain noble… but blind.

I turned to the man beside me and spoke with calm authority:

"What is the name of this opera?"

He gave no reply. Not even a glance, as though I were air.

How insolent.

I asked another. Then another. Still, nothing. It was not until the third attempt that unease began to settle in my chest. Not one of them could hear me. Not one of them could see me. This was no mere rudeness. It was something else.

A cold thought began to stir:

I am a ghost.

I looked down at my hands. Still whole. Still warm. But…how could that be? I have not died. Surely, I would remember my own death.

From a distance, I spotted that girl again. She trudged behind two adults, her small frame straining beneath an oversized bag far larger than herself, crammed with folded paper ingots and other ceremonial offerings that looked moments away from spilling onto the ground. The bag swayed with every step, the contents rustling and bulging against the fabric. Though the autumn breeze was cool, sweat dotted her brow, not from heat, but from the effort of keeping balance and pace.

Beside her, the woman held a young boy in her arms, perhaps four years of age, a small canvas backpack resting lightly on her own shoulders. The man, plainly her husband, walked just ahead. Between his fingers, he held a strange white stick, which he lit with a handheld flame. Moments later, clouds of smoke drifted lazily from his mouth like mist.

I shook my head.

Were they a family?

Or was she a servant?

If so, where were the other attendants? If not… where were her parents?

And yet something unsettled me more: servants do not attend academies.

I edged forward through the growing crowd around the open field until I stood before her. Our eyes met. She stopped. Uncertain, she glanced around, rubbed her eyes, and returned her gaze to me.

"So it is you," I said gently. "We meet again."

She winced.

"I trust your injuries no longer trouble you?"

"Thank you," she replied. Her expression softened.

"My injuries are nothing. Don't worry," she added, finding the courage to meet my eyes.

"You can understand Guan Hua?" I asked.

"Guan Hua? What's that?" She paused. "Oh — I think you mean Chinese. It's my second language. We're third-generation Chinese immigrants here."

She shrugged, then added, "My name is Elizabeth."

"Yi… yi… Yili…" I stumbled over the syllables, embarrassed. "Would you teach me how to pronounce it properly?"

She gave a small laugh. "You're clearly not from here." She squinted at me, thoughtful.

"In Chinese, it would be Yi Li Sha Bai."

"Yi Li Sha Bai. Much better." I nodded. "I am Yongqi, fifth son of the Emperor — Prince of the Great Qing."

"Huh?" Her brows knit. "So… just Yongqi, right?"

I flinched.

To hear my name spoken so plainly… it felt improper.

"Fifth Prince," I corrected gently.

"No," she frowned. "Just Yongqi. No one calls themselves 'Fifth Prince' here."

I opened my mouth to protest… then closed it again.

"Would you teach me how to say your name in your other language?" I asked.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across us. Elizabeth froze, head lowered.

"E-li-za-beth," came a growl. "Who are you talking to?"

I looked up.

The woman towered above us, hands braced at her waist. The boy was now secured to her back in a fabric wrap. Her backpack had been shifted forward, resting against her chest.

"N-no one, Mum," Elizabeth stammered.

That's her mother?

I stared at the woman. And the man.

Even in the Great Qing, where sons are cherished above daughters, a girl ought still to be treated with dignity. That, at least, is what Confucius taught us. And yet, in this strange land, I had seen girls move with freedom, speak as equals, dress without restraint. Their station seemed no less than the boys'.

So what was this?

A contradiction. Even to Confucian sensibilities.

"I hope you remember what we said about imaginary friends," her mother said with quiet irritation.

"Especially DURING the Hungry Ghost Month." Her voice dropped to a menacing whisper.

Elizabeth nodded, eyes cast downward.

It took more than two ke before the family secured an empty table and arranged the offerings properly for the wandering spirits.

As Elizabeth helped with the setup, I noticed her eyes begin to glisten. She blinked furiously, trying to will the tears away.

"Do not weep. They are unworthy of your sorrow," I said softly.

She held a blank expression — a mask of composure far too practised for a child. Concerned, I lingered close. Speaking with ghosts was clearly frowned upon here, perhaps even feared. If harm came to her reputation or name because of me, I would never forgive myself.

When prayers were completed, the family joined the queue at the furnaces where paper offerings were fed to the flames. Elizabeth's mother pulled out three unused incense sticks and lit them. Then, with palms pressed together, she prayed toward the temple gates:

"To the invisible brother who was speaking to Elizabeth earlier — she is only a child. Leave her be. Each year, during the Hungry Ghost Festival, she will return with offerings for you."

Then, turning sharply to her daughter, she hissed:

"Elizabeth, from now on, there shall be no more imaginary friends."