That night, Prince Gong's private study was a cage for his restless energy. His mansion, located just outside the imposing walls of the Forbidden City, was a reflection of the man himself: elegant but spartan, functional and without excessive ornamentation. His study was the heart of his home, a stark, masculine room filled with maps of the empire's troubled borders, shelves groaning under the weight of military treatises, and display stands holding swords and polearms from his family's storied martial past.
He paced the thick wool carpets, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the silk of his robes rustling with each agitated step. The strange, unsettling encounter in the garden replayed in his mind on an endless loop. He was a man accustomed to the intricate and deadly games of the court, to lies wrapped in flattery and threats veiled in protocol. But this was different. This was new.
"A story about Yue Fei and pearls," he muttered to the empty room, his voice a low growl. "And Weng Tonghe… the man looked like he'd seen a ghost. He was terrified. That was no simple lesson the boy was repeating." He stopped and slammed a fist down onto his heavy desk, rattling a pot of brushes. "It was a barb. A targeted accusation, delivered by a child."
His trusted aide, a veteran captain named Batu from his own Manchu banner, stood silently by the door. Batu had served the Prince for twenty years and understood his master's moods better than anyone.
"My lord, perhaps it was just the prattling of a child," Batu offered, his voice a deep, steady rumble. "They are like parrots. They repeat strange things they overhear from servants and eunuchs. It may have meant nothing."
"No," Prince Gong countered, turning to face his aide, his eyes blazing with frustrated intensity. "You were not there, Batu. You did not see the boy's eyes. There was no childishness in them when he looked at me. He was watching me. He was waiting for my reaction. He was delivering a message as surely as if he had handed me a sealed scroll." He began pacing again. "But from whom? And why that story? Pearls… Why pearls?"
Prince Gong was a man of action, not idle speculation. If there was a conspiracy, he would drag it into the light. He dispatched Batu with a series of quiet, urgent orders. His aide was to use the Prince's network of contacts—old soldiers, junior officials who owed him favors, disgruntled guards—to listen to the whispers in the palace's lower echelons.
Batu returned hours later, his face grim in the flickering lamplight. He had found the smoke, if not the fire.
"My lord, your instincts were correct," the aide reported, his voice low. "The rumors among the quartermasters of the Northern Banners are persistent and bitter. The budget for their winter drills was slashed by nearly a third last month. They were not given the funds for new padded coats or adequate supplies. The official reason given by the Board of Revenue was a severe shortfall in provincial tax revenue from the south."
"A lie," Prince Gong spat. "I reviewed the tax ledgers myself last week. The southern revenues were strong this year, stronger than anticipated." He stared into the fire burning in his hearth, his face a mask of cold fury. "So, the silver exists. It was simply… redirected. Where did it go, Batu? Find out."
It was at that moment, in his own chambers miles away within the Forbidden City, that Ying Zheng decided to give the Prince another, more direct push. He sat on his bed, his eyes closed, his consciousness reaching out. He could not be in Prince Gong's study. He could not send another message. But he could touch the elements that connected their two worlds. The wind.
He focused his will on the cold night wind that howled through the narrow hutongs of the capital. This was a new and subtle application of his power. It was not the raw force of creating fire or the brute strength of moving water. This was about guidance, about influence. He did not try to create a storm. He simply nudged the existing air currents, weaving his will into the natural flow of the wind, like a skilled boatman using the river's own current to steer his vessel.
He gathered a portion of the wind, compressed it, and sent a sudden, sharp, unnatural gust hurtling towards the window of Prince Gong's study.
Back in the Prince's mansion, the heavy window latch, which had been rattling softly all evening, was struck by the focused blast of wind with unusual force. With a loud, sharp CRACK, the latch gave way. The window flew open, slamming against the interior wall.
A blast of icy, winter air swept into the room, a chaotic intruder in the warm, still study. It howled and swirled, scattering loose papers across the Prince's desk like autumn leaves. Most of the papers fluttered to the floor in a messy pile. But one specific document—a detailed report from one of his own captains outlining the dangerously sorry state of the army's winter supplies and the resulting drop in morale—was lifted from the pile as if by an invisible hand. It hovered for a moment in the air and then drifted down, landing directly at Prince Gong's feet.
At that exact same moment, the wind carried another sound through the newly opened window. From the street outside, faint but clear, came the cry of a late-night pearl merchant, making his last rounds through the wealthy district.
"Pearls! Flawless South Sea pearls for the noble ladies of the court! The finest in the capital!"
The Prince and his aide stood frozen, staring at the scene. The damning supply report lying at his feet. The distant, mocking cry of the pearl merchant echoing through the study. It was a confluence of events so perfect, so impossibly on-the-nose, that it seemed to transcend mere coincidence.
Batu, a man of the old ways, a believer in spirits and signs, was visibly shaken. He stared at the open window, then at the paper on the floor. "My lord," he breathed, his voice filled with awe. "It is… an omen. Heaven itself sends you a sign."
Prince Gong's face, which had been a mask of shock, hardened into one of cold, immutable certainty. He was a pragmatist, not a mystic, but the message was the same regardless of its source.
"It is not an omen, Batu," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "It is a confirmation." He bent down and snatched the report from the floor. His eyes were like chips of flint. "Get me the ledgers from the Imperial Household Department. All of them. Bribe whoever you must, threaten whoever you must. I don't care what it takes. I want to see the accounts for every pearl purchased in this city in the last three months."
Ying Zheng's supernatural nudge had achieved its purpose. It had pushed the proud, pragmatic Prince from the realm of suspicion into the land of absolute certainty. The tiger had not just taken the bait; he was now hunting.