Chapter 55: Deng Qing Falls Ill

What exactly Deng Qing was planning, Li Zisheng neither knew nor wished to ponder. Li Zisheng himself understood well that the more he knew, the more precarious his situation became. Thus, for matters he did not need to know, he lacked the curiosity to inquire about what was truly happening.

After clearing away the leftover scraps from Li Zisheng’s meal, Ba Liang noticed the young master’s state. Although Li Zisheng had eaten heartily today, his mind showed no sign of liveliness or animation. So Ba Liang said nothing further, merely bidding farewell before taking away the utensils and leaving.

Li Zisheng, in turn, chose not to dwell on anything further. He was unfamiliar with those behind Lingzhou, ignorant of Ashina Zanghe, and did not truly understand Deng Qing. Even Mr. Zhong, whom he once believed he knew well, now seemed inscrutable. When it came to calculating intentions, he realized he still had much to learn and cultivate. Yet there was one great advantage: his own rank, though humble, was significant. At this moment, holding the title of Inspector of the Twenty-Four Prefectures, bestowed by the Governor, was but an empty honor.

On the surface, the title might carry some prestige, but if it interfered with local politics and economics, that would be impossible. It was, at its core, a hollow post with no real power. Even Deng Qing and his associates looked down on Li Zisheng’s position, let alone using it to suppress others.

This was something Li Zisheng understood perfectly. His rank was useless in practical terms but held a subtle, crucial utility. It might seem contradictory, yet this position allowed him to maintain footing amidst the whirlpool of conflict. If vested with real authority, the Inspector of the Twenty-Four Prefectures would wield power akin to a local tyrant in Lingzhou. But without power, he was like an emperor stripped of his throne—bound and powerless.

Still, Governor Zhang had granted him this rank, surely not without reason. To bestow such a title upon a child of merely eight or nine years old and without any achievements was a bold, even reckless move. Even now, Li Zisheng could not fathom Zhang’s true intent. Nevertheless, it had afforded him an early glimpse into the nature of officialdom.

Along this journey, he had witnessed countless things and met many officials.

The night was cool and still as water.

At dawn, the sky remained gray and misty, the fog from the previous night lingering without sign of clearing.

Sudden urgent voices roused Li Zisheng from his sleep, though he felt no disturbance, for it was nearly the hour he usually rose to practice calligraphy. After washing up, he took his small cloth pack, prepared to head to the lake behind the camp to practice his writing. Yet soon, he sensed something amiss.

To his surprise, the soldiers outside seemed to have lost all discipline. Military order was in chaos, with troops wandering aimlessly as if directionless.

Having stayed in the Lingzhou garrison for some time, Li Zisheng was familiar with camp regulations. Patrols and guards each had their duties, their stations carefully assigned to maintain order. Such arrangements were vital; no matter the situation, the ranks must not fall into disarray.

The only exception might be an enemy attack, which could scatter the soldiers suddenly.

But if that were the case, a warning would have been sounded throughout the camp—something Li Zisheng had not heard. Thus, he immediately dismissed the possibility of an enemy assault.

What then had caused this sudden breakdown in discipline within the otherwise well-managed Lingzhou camp?

Li Zisheng abandoned his calligraphy plans and stood at the camp’s entrance.

A soldier approached, his face marked with anxiety. Li Zisheng stopped him.

“What’s happening? Why are you all so flustered?” he asked with surprise.

The young soldier, recognizing Li Zisheng as a participant in the literary contest, responded respectfully.

“General Deng suddenly fell ill, sir. The higher-ups have summoned renowned doctors from all directions to treat him, so things have gotten a bit chaotic.”

This answer startled Li Zisheng. He had never anticipated Deng Qing falling ill so suddenly—it seemed utterly strange, even improbable.

Yesterday, Deng Qing was robust and vigorous; today, news came of his ailment. The matter was suspicious indeed. Though not a master of medicine, Li Zisheng felt quite certain about basic signs of health. By his observation, Deng Qing was exceedingly healthy—such a sudden illness seemed impossible.

“Do you know how General Deng is now? Have they brought any famous doctors?” Li Zisheng pressed further.

“Yes, even before dawn, many physicians arrived, but all are at a loss regarding his condition. They have no effective treatment,” the soldier replied, his face growing more anxious as if genuinely worried.

Li Zisheng did not pay much attention to the soldier’s demeanor.

“Then take me to General Deng’s quarters. I want to see for myself.” Knowing he could not simply enter the general’s tent uninvited, Li Zisheng asked the soldier to lead the way, demonstrating clearly he bore no ill intent—a cautious, prudent move.

The soldier glanced at him and nodded slightly.

Though unaware of Li Zisheng’s origins, the soldier recognized that anyone participating in the Turkic delegation’s literary contest must be highly learned—true pillars of talent. The soldier led carefully, frequently looking back as if afraid Li Zisheng might fall behind. Amused, Li Zisheng said nothing, leisurely following behind.