Chapter Two: Ming's Waist Took a Hit

Fortunately, just as Lingran was getting a throbbing headache from the commotion, the men escorting the carriage outside barked a few stern commands. With a couple of the other girls offering words of persuasion, the quarrel finally subsided. So much for being daughters of illustrious families or officials—when they argued, they were no different from fishwives! The only difference was that their insults didn’t include vulgarities.

Lingran muttered inwardly, wanting nothing to do with the quarrel. She simply leaned against the carriage wall and kept her mouth shut, though her eyes darted about, sizing up the other girls and speculating about their backgrounds.

Their bearing was impressive—none seemed to be from disreputable origins. Every one of them was striking and carried themselves with poise, clearly women of talent and education.

When the carriage at last fell back into quiet, Biqing happily took Lingran’s hand. “So your name is Zhang Lingran? Oh, you haven’t told me which year you were born.”

Lingran noticed that her surname in this life matched her twenty-first-century one. Yet she hadn’t even glimpsed her own appearance since awakening here, and dared not speak carelessly. She feigned surprise and exclaimed, “Oh my, does anyone have a mirror? I must look a fright right now, all disheveled. I should tidy up before sitting with you all.”

“I have one,” Biqing said, removing a scented pouch from her waist. From it, she produced a delicate, semicircular object; with a flick of her wrist, it became a small bronze mirror.

Lingran offered her thanks, marveling at the sophisticated craftsmanship of this world, and angled the mirror to the light, smoothing her hair behind her ears to reveal her whole face.

The reflection in the little mirror filled Lingran with immense satisfaction. Despite some smudges of dirt, her skin was still fair; her eyes, clear and bright, were almond-shaped just as in her former life. Her nose was straight, her lips neither too full nor too thin—by any standard, a beauty. Her skin felt as soft as a baby’s, and she did indeed look very young.

She couldn’t help but laugh aloud. What luck! She’d lost several years just like that, and could now convincingly masquerade as a young girl.

“What’s so funny, little sister?” Biqing snatched the mirror back. “You still haven’t told me your birth year!”

“Oh, right.” Catching Biqing’s eagerness to be the elder, Lingran grinned and replied, “I was born in the third year of Jingtai as well, but my birthday’s in December, so calling you ‘sister’ is only proper.”

Biqing was delighted at last to be addressed as ‘elder sister,’ and the two fell into conversation. The other girls occasionally joined in, and soon Lingran had a rough grasp of the situation.

It turned out that in this era she’d found herself in—which was just before the Tumu Crisis during the reign of Emperor Yingzong—history had played out much as she remembered. When the Emperor Jingtai ascended the throne, renowned ministers like Yu Qian emerged as before. However, a most inexplicable figure had also appeared: someone named Chu Liuxiang.

Chu Liuxiang! Lingran was stunned when she heard the name. Was it a coincidence, or… could this person have come from an era familiar with Gu Long’s stories?

This Chu Liuxiang not only led troops to repel the major invasion by the Oirat Mongols and defended the capital, but also pursued the enemy deep into Tartar territory, where, amid chaos, he drove the former emperor Yingzong to his death. Officially, this was a grave mishap, but for Emperor Jingtai—who wished to avoid his elder brother’s return and a struggle for the throne—it was cause for great rejoicing. Thanks to Chu Liuxiang’s blunder, the later Southern Palace Restoration became nothing but an empty dream. Emperor Jingtai smoothly deposed his nephew Zhu Jianshen and named his own son Zhu Jianji as crown prince.

But then, when Zhu Jianji fell gravely ill at age two and seemed doomed to die, it looked as if the throne would again fall to Zhu Jianshen. At the height of the emperor’s grief, the very man blamed for the former emperor’s death—Chu Liuxiang—miraculously saved the dying crown prince after all other doctors had failed.

From that moment, Chu Liuxiang became Grand Secretary, wielding unrivaled power. When Emperor Jingtai lay dying, he entrusted his son and the imperial seal to Chu Liuxiang, making him the regent in all but name: the young emperor’s savior, mentor, and the true master of the Ming dynasty. His reputation, however, was anything but spotless. Whether through ignorance or the loose morals of the time, the girls in the carriage spoke freely of Chu Liuxiang’s suppression of rivals, execution of loyal ministers like Yu Qian, selling of official posts, use of the Eastern Depot to persecute royal princes, and his utter lack of respect in court—he was, in short, a notorious villain! The very model of a treacherous prime minister.

Yet, it seemed, Chu Liuxiang was not without his virtues. He placed great emphasis on education for the next generation and even encouraged a certain degree of freedom of expression. Ordinary people could gossip about high officials without fear. And this “arch-villain” had sired an even more remarkable son! Chu Yu, the only heir of the Chu family, was said to have studied under the finest masters, combining the dashing looks of Dugu Xin with the valor of the Flying General Li Guang. He expanded the Ming borders deep into Mongolia, earning such distinction that the emperor called him “brother” and granted him the title Prince of Xiang—the first non-imperial prince of the Ming dynasty. Lingran couldn’t help but compare this to modern holistic education—Chu Liuxiang had truly excelled!

Thus, history had taken a sharp turn after the Jingtai era. The crown prince Zhu Jianji, who had only lived to age two before, now sat firmly on the throne as the eighth emperor of Ming—Emperor Chengshou.

On a smaller scale, it seemed all the girls in the carriage knew Lingran’s identity. She was said to be the youngest daughter of Zhang Ning, a censor who had offended Chu Liuxiang’s faction and was now imprisoned, his fate uncertain. One thing, however, was certain: his daughter would be sold as a “Thousand-Gold Songstress.”

This was the highest-priced class of courtesan in the capital’s markets, requiring noble birth, unsullied reputation, education, perfect manners, maidenhood, and above all, beauty—each fetching over a thousand taels of silver.

One must not underestimate the worth of a thousand taels in this era. At the time of the Ming dynasty, a single tael could buy an acre of poor farmland. Officials’ salaries were meager; even a grand secretary’s annual pay was only about three hundred taels—a legacy of the founder Zhu Yuanzhang’s notorious stinginess. So in comparison, the price of a Thousand-Gold Songstress was truly astronomical.

The real problem lay in the fate awaiting these women. Only the most powerful and wealthy could afford them: some were sold into princely households, some to generals or officials, others to rich merchants as concubines—the outcomes were as varied as they were uncertain.

The girls in the carriage were thus caught between hope and fear for what the future might bring.