Futile Devices Scans

In the second month of the fifteenth year of Jinyuan, Mu Heng, already enfeoffed as Prince Yong, accompanied the Empress Dowager to Jichuan City to recuperate at the hot springs. They had originally planned to return in early April, but on the fifth day of the third month, while at the imperial villa, he suddenly received a secret edict delivered by Hong Shou, Deputy Commander of the Imperial Guards. Emperor Jinyuan ordered him to return to Fengdu immediately, without delay.

“Hong Shou kept his mouth tightly shut and refused to reveal anything,” Zhong Yi said as he pushed the door open from outside, his expression tense and his tone short and decisive. “Your Highness, the personal guards are fully prepared and ready to depart at any time.”

Mu Heng was full of doubts, his brows pressed so low they nearly touched his eyelids. “Time is of the essence—we leave at once. Shuchen, you—”

Before he could finish, Wei Fu made a gesture indicating he would go along. Mu Heng said, “What about the Empress Dowager?”

Although he was leaving hastily under imperial orders, if anything went wrong on the Empress Dowager’s side, the blame might fall on him. Wei Fu took out the small notebook he carried with him and wrote swiftly: I have instructed the entire imperial villa to strengthen defenses. As an outside official, it is not appropriate for me to attend upon the Empress Dowager; staying would be of no use. I will go with Your Highness.

Time was pressing, and Mu Heng had no time to argue. He led his men out of the imperial villa and galloped north at full speed.

From Jichuan City back to Fengdu, they had to pass Dutou Mountain. The mountain lay at the border of three cities, tall and densely forested, named for its resemblance to an ox’s head. Taking the flat official road around the base would cost at least two extra days, but cutting straight through the mountain would take less than three days at full speed.

Traveling light and eager to return to court, Mu Heng’s choice was obvious. Before entering Dutou Mountain, while they resupplied and rested in a small town at its base, Wei Fu handed him the notebook.  On it were only four characters: An ominous premonition.

Mu Heng’s right eyelid had been twitching the entire journey, yet he still feigned calm and asked lightly, “What is it?”

Wei Fu wrote: A piece placed upon the board, every move controlled by others’ hands; the road ahead is unclear, and I fear unforeseen danger.

Even without a voice, his ominous words struck directly at Mu Heng’s unspoken unease. Zhong Yi, utterly lacking tact, added from the side, “The paths of Dutou Mountain are steep and sparsely populated. If I were an assassin, I would definitely choose to set an ambush there.”

“For heaven’s sake, I beg you two—say something auspicious,” Mu Heng groaned, feeling as though his chest were being punctured by their words one after another. Yet he himself could think of nothing better to say, and only let out a soft breath. “Even taking ten thousand steps back—who could manipulate Father Emperor into issuing an edict? If it truly comes to that, whether we return or not, we cannot escape fate. It’s only a matter of sooner or later.”

The spring mountain wind still carried a lingering chill, blowing coldly across the back of their necks. In the strange silence of them staring at one another, two crows cawed loudly overhead as they flew past Mu Heng.

Wei Fu held a cinnabar brush and hastily drew two crude talismans on paper, tore them off, and slapped one onto each of their chests.

Mu Heng picked his up and glanced at it, feeling his eyes nearly assaulted by the chaotic strokes. “What is this?”

Wei Fu wrote: A protective talisman, learned from True Master Zhang of Yunjí Temple; proven effective every time, no deception for young or old.

Mu Heng said skeptically, “The last time you went to Yunjí Temple was when you were ten, and True Master Zhang passed away last year. And this ‘no deception for young or old’—could it be because the two of us are neither young nor old…?”

Zhong Yi, however, carefully held the slip of paper and said seriously, “But Shuchen has a photographic memory. If he has seen it, he can reproduce it. It should be useful, right?”

“Stop blindly worshipping him,” Mu Heng snapped, snatching the talisman and holding it side by side with his own in front of Zhong Yi’s face. “Open your eyes and look—these two talismans aren’t even drawn the same!”

Wei Fu: “……”

He tossed aside the notebook, rolled up his sleeves, and moved to beat the prince. Zhong Yi hurriedly grabbed him to stop him, and Mu Heng had no choice but to tuck the poorly drawn talisman close to his body, even promising to mount and display it in his study later.

After resting, they reorganized their gear and rode into Dutou Mountain. On one side of the path was a sheer cliff, on the other a steep drop. At its narrowest, only a single horse could pass. They carefully guided their mounts through, inching forward like threading a needle, until they finally reached a wider, open stretch. Only then, as the mountain wind blew, did they realize they were drenched in cold sweat.

Just as the leading riders reined in their horses to wait for the rear to catch up, Zhong Yi caught sight of the trees by the roadside shaking suspiciously. He immediately leapt toward Mu Heng and shouted a warning, “Ambush—stay alert!”

The enemy struck suddenly. In the chaos, Mu Heng’s vision was obstructed, and he could only steady Zhong Yi briefly. “A’Yi! Are you hurt?”

Zhong Yi had no time to answer. He drew the blade at his waist and struck Mu Heng’s horse sharply on the flank with the scabbard. “Break through! Keep going forward—don’t look back!”

A rain of arrows followed, the anguished cries of wounded horses ringing endlessly as dust surged up along the road. More than a dozen black-clad assassins charged out from the forest, engaging the guards in fierce combat.

“A’Yi!”

The horse, stung by pain, bolted into a frantic gallop. In just a few breaths, Zhong Yi’s reaction had been astonishingly fast, and the steed Mu Heng rode was strong and swift—man and horse broke through the encirclement in an instant, leaving the shouts of battle far behind.

Mu Heng rode with his head lowered, racing forward. In the blink of an eye, he had already covered nearly three li. The only sound left in his ears was the howling wind. Gradually, he recovered from the blank shock of the sudden ambush and instinctively tightened the reins, slowing slightly.

His mind was numb, his face expressionless. When he held the reins, he felt an unnatural stickiness in his hand. Looking down, he realized his right palm was covered in half-dried blood.

Mu Heng froze for a long moment before belatedly realizing—it was Zhong Yi’s blood.

Zhong Yi. Wei Fu. The fifteen personal guards who had accompanied them… He looked back at the empty road behind him, and something inside him collapsed soundlessly.

Faint hoofbeats sounded again in the distance. Mu Heng, already like a startled bird, was about to spur his horse and flee when he suddenly caught a faint jingling sound in the wind.

His spirits lifted at once—Wei Fu habitually carried a small bell. Whenever he needed to signal someone, whether through a door or from afar, he would use the bell to identify himself.

Mu Heng waited anxiously in place for a moment. Soon, a rider galloped into view. Wei Fu signaled to him from afar. After the two regrouped, they rode another half li before suddenly veering into the dense forest at a bend in the mountain path.

“Where are the assassins? How is A’Yi? Did you see him? Are the others still alive?”

Mu Heng grabbed him and fired off questions in rapid succession. Wei Fu raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, then dismounted and pulled him behind a tree.

An arrow had grazed his arm; it trembled with pain. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out a map from his robes and marked their position with a piece of charcoal. Then he circled Zhensong City to the northwest and scribbled the character “Xiu” beside it.

“Zhensong City… you mean Wei Xiu…” Mu Heng’s voice came out trembling and breathy. Forcing himself to lower it, he asked, “I remember he serves there as a prefectural judge. You want to go to him?”

Wei Fu nodded, rolled up the map, and stuffed it into Mu Heng’s arms. He stripped off his outer robe and tossed it aside, then clumsily began tugging at Mu Heng’s clothes.

“What are you doing?” Mu Heng demanded in shock. “Have you lost your mind?!”

Wei Fu forcefully pried away the hand Mu Heng used to clutch his collar. For the first time, Mu Heng realized that all those mornings of training with Zhong Yi were not in vain—Wei Fu could pin down his struggle with just one hand.

Wei Fu pulled off his outer garment and shoved his own robe into Mu Heng’s hands, urging him to put it on. The meaning of the gesture was unmistakable. Mu Heng had already guessed his intention. In that instant, his eyes burned with heat and pain, his insides twisting. He grabbed Wei Fu’s wrist. “You’re coming with me!”

Wei Fu twisted his wrist free with an unusually calm expression and rapidly wrote in his notebook: We split up. You find reinforcements. I’ll wait for you.

But his actions clearly showed he intended to act as Mu Heng’s decoy, drawing away the pursuers and buying him time to escape.

Splitting up was merely a less cruel way of saying “sacrifice the pawn to save the king.”

“No, Shuchen,” Mu Heng gripped his wrist tightly, his voice trembling almost into a plea. “We’ll escape together. You can’t go…”

Wei Fu looked at him quietly. After a brief silence, he suddenly pointed at his own throat, then gently patted Mu Heng’s chest in reassurance. Just as he always did, he curved his eyes into a soft, familiar smile.

He mouthed the words: “Take care.”

Later, Mu Heng would think about it countless times—where had Wei Fu found the courage, what kind of resolve had he held, to calmly choose a path of no return for himself in such a fleeting moment?

Even as he walked alone toward death, he could still use a calmness bordering on cruelty to reassure Mu Heng—“I cannot speak; you can be completely at ease.”

He was the perfect choice. Even if captured and interrogated about Mu Heng’s whereabouts, he would never utter a word.

In the past, when Mu Heng read of stories of the ancients “sacrificing life for righteousness” and “giving one’s life to fulfill benevolence”, he had only felt their grandeur. But when it truly fell upon him, he finally understood the weight of “embracing death without hesitation,” and how ruthless one must be to carry it through.

The ancients often said, “A true man meets me, and I repay him as such”. But Wei Fu was only fifteen. Let alone “a man dies for one who understands him”, he had not even had the chance to enter official service. He was no military man either—at best, he might have become an unrecognized aide under Mu Heng. Such a future was not worth wagering his life. Did he truly expect that saving a prince would earn another memorial arch for the aristocratic Wei family?

Through countless sleepless nights, Mu Heng replayed that moment over and over, imagining every possible way they might have escaped. But in that single, unchangeable past, he hadn’t even had time to speak—hadn’t even had time to wipe away the tears running into his mouth. All he could do was watch helplessly as Wei Fu burst out of the forest, leapt onto the mountain path, and rode away; while he himself led his horse through the narrow trails of the woods, heading in the opposite direction.

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