Chapter 16: “To die beneath a peony blossom, even as a ghost, would be a life of romance…”

The moonlight was deep and heavy. In the courtyard, a small, exquisitely crafted waterwheel turned round and round, paddling through the pond before the artificial hill.

At last, the familiar sound of horse hooves echoed outside the courtyard.

Ju Chen couldn’t help but smile faintly. She jumped down, lifted the hem of her skirt, and walked to the door to greet him.

The man’s footsteps were noticeably hurried, stepping on the smooth cobblestones with crisp, steady sounds.

Their eyes met—Song Mi saw her standing at the door with her hand on the door ring. His brows furrowed as he walked up and scooped her into his arms, giving her a sharp slap on her bottom.

Though it looked like flirting, the force wasn’t exactly light.

Ju Chen froze in shock. He lowered his gaze past her snow-white ankles and spoke in a teasing, cool voice:
“Isn’t Lord Li cold?”

Ju Chen’s bare feet curled slightly from the chill on the ground. Her cheeks immediately flushed like rouge.

In her past life, she’d heard him call her “Lord Li” countless times. It never sounded respectful—only ever mocking.
But now, her heart felt as if a cat had scratched it.

Song Mi set her down on the woven mat. Ju Chen quickly tucked her feet beneath her skirt, smoothed out her dress, and looked at the tiredness on his face.
“Have you eaten yet?” she asked.

Song Mi glanced at the now-cold dishes on the table.
“You were waiting for me all this time?”

Ju Chen nodded.

Song Mi turned around and called someone in to reheat the meal. Then he sat down beside her, picked up a spoon, served her a bowl of carp soup, and said softly:
“Next time, just eat without me.”

Ju Chen paused. “I can’t just let you eat leftovers.”

“I’m not that picky.”

Ju Chen lowered her chopsticks and looked at him, recalling Lu Feng’s sigh—how, for so many years, he’d always been alone.

Their fates were so similar. Both had been sent away by their families when they were young.

But she had been more fortunate. She had the love of the Princess and the company of Princess Xuyang.

And him? Back then, he was still so young. In all those lonely days and nights on Mount Peng, had he even eaten properly?

Seeing she hadn’t moved her chopsticks, Song Mi glanced at her.

Ju Chen sniffed, cupped her cheeks in her hands, and stared at him with an innocent gaze.
“I’m not used to eating alone,” she said quietly.

Song Mi detected the faint melancholy in her voice. After a pause, he replied gently:
“Then I’ll try to come earlier from now on.”

Ju Chen’s eyes curved into glowing crescents.

Song Mi passed the soup to her. Ju Chen took the spoon and sipped carefully, making no sound. During the meal, she peeked at him several times.

Song Mi asked, “What’s wrong?”

Ju Chen rested her chin on her fist and coughed lightly. “Are we really not supposed to talk during meals?”

Song Mi mimicked her quiet tone:
“Not necessarily.”

Ju Chen’s shoulders suddenly relaxed. She leaned back with a deep breath and raised her voice slightly, brightly saying:
“You never talk when we eat—I thought it was a rule you followed.”

Song Mi was silent for a moment before explaining gently:
“I’ve eaten alone since I was a child. I’m used to the quiet. But if you want to talk, you can.”

A flicker of heartache passed through Ju Chen’s eyes. Without worrying about being impolite, she picked up some dishes and put them into his bowl with a smile.
Then she asked if he’d been delayed by something today.

Prince Pengshan was known for his discipline. If there were other plans, he would multitask, working with both hands to fly through paperwork. He hated wasting even a moment.

If he was late today, it had to be something urgent.

Song Mi frowned and said gravely:
“This year’s snow has been too heavy. In Shangdu, it still hasn’t stopped. There are already signs of disaster.”

Ju Chen was surprised on the surface, but inwardly calm.

The snow disaster had arrived—just as expected.

Tonight, in the imperial study, Song Mi had received his appointment as imperial envoy to lead the disaster relief in Shangdu. He would depart at dawn.

Ju Chen asked about the situation. Song Mi gave a brief summary, then murmured,
“I’m not sure if the treasury can cover the costs in time.”

Ju Chen asked, “What if it can’t?”

Song Mi looked at her.
“Then I’ll find a way.”

Ju Chen was immersed in the faint softness hidden in his gaze. She remembered: to him, she was still young—not the powerful female chancellor of her past life.
Saying too much would only burden him.

So she simply gave him a look of trust.

Clapping her hands, she smiled:
“Actually, I saw a cloak the other day at the Gold Market. It looked like it was made for you.”

She ran over to her vanity, fetched a brocade box, and handed it to him.

Song Mi’s eyes brightened for a rare moment. The surprise made him pause, momentarily forgetting to accept it.

Ju Chen opened the box for him with a playful smile.
“Isn’t it nice?”

She had designed the cloak herself over several days. It was tailored overnight—fine feather weave, moon-colored silk lining.

Song Mi ran his fingers over the soft sleeve of the cloak and couldn’t help but smile.

“Very nice.”

---

The next morning, snow fell again in thick flurries.

Snow had buried dozens of towns. The people’s coal and grain supplies were nearly gone. Their poorly sealed homes were like frozen tombs.

Outside government offices, starving, rag-clad victims gathered daily, shouting for help.

The granaries of Shangdu had been opened for full-scale relief, but it was barely a drop in the bucket.

Magistrate Zhao was like an ant on a hot pan, unable to sleep for days. His lips were blistered. When he saw Prince Pengshan dismount that morning, he looked like he’d seen a god—nearly fell to his knees with tears.

“Your Highness, thank heaven you’ve come!”

Song Mi, cloaked in that very same feathered mantle, smiled slightly and subtly sidestepped Zhao’s hand reaching to wipe tears on his sleeve. Without much small talk, he immediately ordered the soldiers to unload the grain, light fires, cook rice, and steam cakes to distribute among the people.

Zhao, moving efficiently, followed him in commanding the efforts. Looking at the steaming buns being handed out in an orderly fashion, he sighed in relief,
“Now we’re saved.”

But Song Mi didn’t relax. His expression remained stern. He muttered,
“This is only the beginning.”

Zhao looked at him in confusion.

Song Mi simply ordered him to quickly gather all available carpenters from the city and surrounding areas.

“What for?” Zhao asked.

“To build shelters.”

Zhao looked even more puzzled.

But three days later, he understood.

Three days later, the snow in Shangdu turned to pouring rain—sheets of it hammering the earth.

The constant drizzle melted the mountain snow, sending water rushing into the Yellow River. The ice broke. The flood surged uncontrollably and spilled toward Shangdu.

What began as a snow disaster, ultimately became a flood.

Countless homes were destroyed by the flash floods. Refugees were displaced. Thankfully, the military had already built makeshift shelters on high ground, where they could take refuge.

That morning, despite the heavy rain, Song Mi still rode his white horse, personally inspecting each disaster area.

The rough shelters were crowded, the conditions harsh—but there were few casualties.

Zhao followed closely behind, full of praise:
“Thank the heavens for your foresight, Your Highness. Otherwise, we’d be in chaos.”

But Song Mi’s brow remained furrowed.
“Foresight?” he repeated quietly. “What foresight?”

---

Zhao Tongpan cupped his hands and said, “Wasn’t it Your Highness who observed the heavens at night and foresaw the coming storm, thus ordering us to build shelters early as a precaution?”

He was certainly imaginative—actually believing that His Highness had the skills of an imperial astrologer.

Song Mi curled his lips into a faint smile and replied calmly, “My initial intention was simply because the weather was bitterly cold, and the government offices lacked sufficient reserves of coal. By gathering the people in shelters, I hoped they could keep each other warm. I hadn’t expected the flooding disaster to strike, but the shelters ended up serving an even greater purpose.”

Zhao Tongpan seemed persuaded by this seemingly coincidental explanation and nodded in understanding. After all, predicting the will of heaven was usually the domain of those self-proclaimed mystics—Daoist fraudsters who exaggerated everything with mystical airs.

Each time Song Mi inspected a disaster-stricken area, he would check the local pharmacies’ records. Now, he summoned the local medical officer and asked with concern, “Have you noticed anything unusual?”

The medical officer cupped his hands in salute and replied truthfully, “Not at the moment.”

“No one has a fever? No one is coughing?”

The officer shook his head repeatedly.

Song Mi lowered his eyes, his expression heavy.

Standing beside him, Zhao Tongpan couldn’t help but sigh softly, “Your Highness cares so deeply for the people’s safety—you are truly a model for all of us local officials.”

Song Mi had no interest in entertaining his flattery. He frowned and asked, “Those medicinal herbs I previously mentioned—has the yamen prepared them?”

Zhao Tongpan was momentarily speechless. He swallowed and bowed again. “Your Highness, it’s not that I disregarded your instructions. It’s just that some of the herbs you mentioned are quite expensive. Preparing them all would cost tens of thousands of taels. If we spent all the relief funds on medicine, we’d quickly run out of money.”

And the disaster wasn’t even halfway over yet.

Song Mi raised his head and said directly, “I’ll have the Ministry of Revenue handle the funds. Those are anti-epidemic herbal sachets. We must prepare them as a precaution.”

Zhao Tongpan opened his mouth, but the words stayed in his throat.

“If you have something to say, just speak.”

Zhao Tongpan hesitated, glancing at his official hat, then at the disaster victims in front of him. Bracing himself, he said, “I only feel that there’s currently no sign of an epidemic. The victims don’t need treatment yet—they need food every day. Wouldn’t spending money this way be penny wise and pound foolish?”

As soon as he said it, he bowed deeply, worried he had overstepped.

Song Mi didn’t refute him. Instead, he took him to the provincial office’s archive room and showed him the records of disasters over the past fifty years along the Huanghe River in Shangdu.

“I’m still young, and this is my first time serving as an imperial envoy for disaster relief. I feared my lack of experience would hinder your efforts, so on my first day in Shangdu, I requested all past disaster records, hoping to learn from them.”

Song Mi’s kind demeanor and sincerity brought tears to Zhao Tongpan’s eyes. Clutching the files, he bowed deeply. “Your Highness truly cares for the people like his own children, with a heart for the world. You are—”

Song Mi cut him off, “Better to look at the records first.”

Zhao Tongpan looked at the red annotations Song Mi had marked. Since the founding of the Liang Dynasty, there had been 22 disasters along the Huanghe River in Shangdu—10 droughts and 12 floods.

The droughts were mostly resolved quickly after the court allocated funds. But of the 12 floods, nine were followed by outbreaks of epidemic diseases.

Song Mi said, “I consulted numerous texts and found this pattern. Floods tend to alter the earth’s structure, creating environmental changes. Flash floods bring unknown toxins from the mountains into the cities. With constant rain, the surroundings become damp, filthy, and stagnant—perfect for the spread of disease.”

Zhao Tongpan’s expression gradually became serious.

Song Mi recalled, “In the third year of Tianxi, there was a particularly fierce epidemic along the border of Shangdu’s Lucheng. Records say that a single infection led to the collapse of the entire city. The population plummeted, white funeral banners filled the streets, corpses were everywhere—less than one-tenth of the people survived.”

Zhao Tongpan shuddered, goosebumps rising across his back.

That epidemic left a deep mark on Song Mi because, back then, the late emperor had defied the court to make Cao Shu empress. When the natural disasters followed, people blamed her, accusing her of lacking the virtue for her station. The emperor, to protect her, personally wrote a letter of self-condemnation.

Every time Song Mi recalled the gentle and noble back of that man, his feelings grew complicated. His gaze involuntarily turned to the little white dog tied outside the door.

Zhao Tongpan wiped the sweat from his forehead and inhaled deeply. “Your Highness, I understand now. I will do everything in my power to protect the people of Shangdu.”

Song Mi nodded. “Your point wasn’t wrong. Ensuring food and clothing comes first. I’ve already sent a formal request to the Ministry of Revenue—they’ll release the next round of relief funds soon.”

They discussed the specifics of the next steps, and as they exited the archive room, Zhao Tongpan followed behind Song Mi. He paused and couldn’t help but look him up and down.

Song Mi turned and caught the look. “What is it?”

Zhao Tongpan chuckled. “I noticed this a few days ago—Your Highness’s cloak is rather special.”

Despite being out in the wind and rain for days, Zhao Tongpan was soaked even under his bamboo hat. His boots now stood in a small puddle. But Song Mi’s cloak was perfectly dry, the water beading and rolling off the fine feathered fabric as soon as it touched.

Everyone else looked bedraggled—only Song Mi remained poised and immaculate. Zhao Tongpan was filled with envy. “May I ask where you bought it?”

“It was a gift.”

Zhao Tongpan noticed a faint warmth flash across his face and guessed it might be from a beloved confidante. “They must be a very thoughtful person.”

Song Mi’s expression softened further, and he smiled.

—

In his previous life, Song Mi’s relief efforts in Shangdu were riddled with obstacles.

First snow, then flood, then epidemic.

The disease spread fast—one person infected meant the entire household perished.

Discovery came too late. Local officials, fearing blame, covered it up. When medicine finally arrived, it was delayed due to funding shortages. Half the city was lost. Tens of thousands of lives…

This time, with foresight from a dream, Song Mi wouldn’t sit idly by.

On the first day of rain in Shangdu, fearing a flood, he preemptively issued orders to the Ministry of Revenue to halt routine New Year’s funding and divert funds to disaster relief.

He also wrote privately to Minister Wang Zhi, asking him to reprioritize the national budget—cutting non-essential spending and allocating as much as possible to emergency relief.

What he didn’t expect was such a swift response. Soon, a second batch of relief funds arrived.

The one escorting the funds was the eldest son of the Minister of War, and with him was Lu Feng, who waved excitedly from horseback as they approached.

“I heard you were short on manpower, so I came to help.”

Song Mi clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Why was Wang Zhi so fast this time?”

He knew the minister well—detailed to the point of stubbornness. He wouldn’t approve a single copper coin without knowing where it went.

Lu Feng gave a thumbs up. “All thanks to the girls from Feng Pavilion.”

“Li Juchen’s calculations are lightning fast. I was dizzy just watching. It’s the first time I realized that accounting skills can stabilize a household and govern a nation.”

“A country is just a big home,” Song Mi smiled faintly, remembering the night before he left the capital.

That cloak had been delivered to him—and he had pinned her beneath him on the bamboo mat.

Under the hazy moonlight, she was like driftwood bobbing on the sea, rising and falling to his rhythm.

At the height of passion, he bit her ear.

She gasped and clung to his neck, face flushed, looking into his eyes. “Disaster relief is serious. The Ministry must hold the rear. Can you ask Minister Wang to let Feng Pavilion take this chance to help out and gain some experience?”

He agreed without hesitation.

When he climaxed, she kissed his chin gently.

As he calmed, looking down at her, he realized just how cunning she was.

In that moment, he would have given her power, money—his life, even.

So this, he thought, was truly “to die under the peony blossom, a romantic death indeed.”

If she had used this tactic in their past life, there would never have been a calculating Regent King.

This time, Song Mi tracked every detail and identified the epidemic’s origin immediately.

The cover-up failed. The court responded in time, dispatching troops to help contain the outbreak.

What he didn’t expect was the arrival of the heir to the Yunnan Royal House, Yuan Zheng.

He rode through the rain with his army, leaping off his horse—wearing a cloak exactly like Song Mi’s.