Chapter 543: Return to the Capital

Seeing someone off beneath the slanting light of a spring day,
Alone I whip my weary horse toward the ends of the earth.
Moonlight rises over the river, stirring thoughts of home,
I hasten to find lodging near a roadside tavern.

Zhu Ping’an had stayed at Li Shu’s home for only a single day. The faint spark that had just been kindled between them had yet to bloom into flame before he was forced to set out once more for the capital. Repeated summons from the capital pressed heavily upon him, leaving him no choice but to tear himself away from that tender haven and begin his journey north.

Li Shu personally helped him pack his belongings, her movements careful and quiet, as though reluctant to disturb even a moment of their fleeting time together. His mother, Madam Chen, added a jar of freshly pickled tender cucumbers, their pale green color still vibrant and crisp. Zhu’s father contributed as well—two smoked wild rabbits he had hunted himself, along with several freshly baked flatbreads wrapped neatly in paper and tucked into the luggage.

This journey back to the capital, Zhu Ping’an would make alone.

Master Li, unable to bear parting with his daughter so soon, insisted that Li Shu remain at home for a few more days before sending her onward to the marquis’s residence in the capital. The moment Li Shu uttered even a hint of departure, Master Li’s eyes would redden, his tears threatening to fall. Moreover, according to village custom, after marriage the bride was to return to her parental home for three days and remain there for seven. And so, Li Shu stayed behind a while longer.

This time, Zhu Ping’an chose to travel on horseback.

The previous maritime disaster had left both Madam Chen and Li Shu deeply shaken—so much so that even the mention of ships made them uneasy. Together, they firmly opposed the idea of him taking a sea route again.

Of course, avoiding something entirely out of fear was not a wise approach either.

Zhu Ping’an decided instead to travel part of the journey by boat along the Yangtze River, then disembark at Nanjing and continue north by horse. Whether in ancient times or modern, coastal regions tended to be more economically developed, with flatter terrain and smoother roads—but once on land, riding swiftly along the official roads would ultimately be faster.

Madam Chen and Li Shu, though wary of sea voyages, had no objection to river travel, which was far safer.

The reason Zhu Ping’an chose to switch to horseback at Nanjing lay in considerations of time.

Traveling downstream along the Yangtze would take only a few days, but continuing via the Grand Canal would significantly prolong the journey. Recently, rainfall along the canal had been scarce, causing water levels to drop. Shallow waters restricted navigation, yet traffic remained heavy—especially with the endless flow of grain transport ships, along with official and civilian vessels. Congestion was frequent, slowing travel considerably.

Moreover, parts of the canal followed natural rivers and lakes, while others were artificially dug. Water flow varied greatly, and in some sections, traveling against the current could be painfully slow—especially now, with low water levels. In such places, boats even required trackers to haul them forward manually, further delaying progress. Add to that the waiting time at locks, where water levels were adjusted by opening and closing gates, and the delays accumulated.

In times of abundant water, these factors were negligible.

But now, with diminished flow, every detail mattered—weather, wind direction, current, congestion, lock delays.

Altogether, a boat journey from Yingtian Prefecture to Shuntian Prefecture could easily take one to two months.

By comparison, riding north was a far more efficient choice.

Li Shu had even brought out one of her third brother’s prized steeds—a fine, spirited horse—and entrusted it to Zhu Ping’an. The loss left her third brother aching with regret for quite some time.

Once everything was packed and farewells were said, Zhu Ping’an set out.

Li Shu accompanied him in a carriage as far as the Ten-Mile Pavilion before finally stopping.

“Does it look nice?”

She snapped a slender willow branch from outside the pavilion and tied it to the horse’s bridle, carefully forming it into a delicate bow. Satisfied, she patted the horse’s head and looked up at Zhu Ping’an, her lips pursed in a soft pout as she asked.

Her bright eyes shimmered, her teeth pearly white. With only the lightest touch of makeup, her smile alone could enchant a city.

“Beautiful,” Zhu Ping’an replied, nodding earnestly as he gazed at her.

“I meant this.” Li Shu rolled her eyes adorably and tugged at the willow bow with her slender fingers.

“Ahem… that’s beautiful too,” Zhu Ping’an coughed lightly, correcting himself.

Since ancient times—ever since the lines “When I left, the willows swayed”—breaking a willow branch had become a customary gesture of farewell.

“Idiot.”

Li Shu huffed softly, her expression as radiant as the moon, her gaze lively and captivating. Zhu Ping’an found himself stealing another glance at her, unable to help it.

A talented man, a beautiful woman—beneath the Ten-Mile Pavilion.

And yet, no matter how far one accompanies another, parting must come in the end.

At last, Zhu Ping’an mounted his steed and set off alone toward the capital. Li Shu stood beneath the pavilion, watching until his figure disappeared into the distance.

“Miss, Miss—come back to your senses! The Young Master-in-law has gone far already,” the bun-faced maid Hua’er giggled, covering her mouth as she teased.

“Keep laughing and I’ll give you away to someone else,” Li Shu snapped, though without real heat.

“You wouldn’t dare.” The maid stuck out her tongue playfully, then blushed. “I’m supposed to be your bridal chamber maid, after all.”

“Shameless.” Li Shu tapped her lightly on the forehead.

“Hehe, it’s the Young Master-in-law who’s shameless—I saw him kiss you,” the maid whispered, her face flushed as though she herself had been kissed.

“What nonsense are you saying!” Li Shu protested, her cheeks instantly reddening.

“I saw it!” the maid insisted, nodding vigorously.

“You saw wrong—that stinky toad was just whispering in my ear,” Li Shu replied, though the blush spreading across her face betrayed her.

—

When Zhu Ping’an first set out, the weather had been clear and bright.

But after about an hour of riding, dark clouds began to gather overhead. Within minutes, the sky turned overcast, and soon, large raindrops began to fall—quickly intensifying into a dense, pounding downpour.

Zhu Ping’an dismounted, donned a rain cloak, and carefully wrapped his luggage in oilcloth before mounting again and pressing onward.

He was already on the official road now. The surroundings were sparsely populated, with no villages in sight—no shelter from the rain. He had no choice but to continue forward, hoping to find refuge ahead.

The rain grew heavier, the wind stronger. The slanting rain lashed against him, slipping beneath his cloak and soaking through his clothes. His luggage, tightly wrapped, remained dry—but he himself soon felt the chill seep into his bones, his garments damp and clinging as the cold wind made him shiver.

Fortunately, the fine steed beneath him proved its worth—far swifter than his old scruffy black horse, maintaining its speed even against the storm.

After another half hour, Zhu Ping’an finally spotted a village ahead. Not far from the roadside stood a small shop.

He rode up, tied his horse in the stable outside, and carried his luggage inside.

The shop was small but crowded with people seeking shelter from the rain. It had a rustic, rural feel, with simple tables and benches scattered about. A central fire pit provided warmth for drying clothes—but every spot around it was already occupied. Though many had finished drying themselves, they lingered, chatting and laughing, unwilling to give up their places. New arrivals had little chance of squeezing in.

“Sir, are you stopping for a meal or lodging?” the shop attendant asked, hurrying over with a white towel draped over his shoulder.

“For a meal.” Zhu Ping’an set down his luggage and wrung out the rainwater from his clothes, sending a stream of water splashing onto the floor.

“Right away! What would you like?” the attendant asked.

Zhu Ping’an glanced at the crowd gathered around the fire pit, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“A bowl of hot soup, one meat dish, one vegetable dish, and two steamed buns. Also… bring some meat to feed my horse.”

The attendant froze, utterly bewildered. “Sir… horses don’t eat meat.”

“Just do as I say,” Zhu Ping’an waved him off.

The attendant, still puzzled, took some meat and headed out to the stable, his expression a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

A horse… eating meat?

Did I hear that right? Has this fellow lost his mind?

Inside, several customers had overheard the exchange. They began pointing at Zhu Ping’an, some scoffing, others smirking—but curiosity soon got the better of them. Quite a few followed the attendant outside to see for themselves.

As for Zhu Ping’an, he paid them no mind.

With calm composure, he walked toward the fire pit, found a newly vacated spot, and set down his belongings. Removing his outer garment, he wrung out the water and began drying it by the fire.