In 1415, Zhu Di summoned a young tribute girl who had just entered the palace to his bedchamber—and discovered she was no longer a virgin.
Furious, Zhu Di kicked her off the bed. “Tell me! Who have you been carrying on with?”
The girl trembled as she wept and kowtowed over and over. At last, she gave a name: Ji Gang, Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.
On the sixteenth day of the first lunar month, the eunuchs crunched over the ice as they led the last group of tribute girls from Jiangnan into the Palace of Heavenly Purity.
They were only fourteen or fifteen. After finishing his memorials in the warm pavilion, Zhu Di glanced up and casually pointed to the palest girl at the end of the line. “Her.”
The palace maids bathed her, perfumed her, and made her drink a mouthful of warmed cassia-branch wine before helping her into bed. Zhu Di had no patience for fuss. As soon as the curtain fell, he reached for her.
The girl trembled more violently than the snow outside, her teeth chattering so loudly she could hear them herself. Zhu Di touched the sash of her trousers. His fingers stopped. His face darkened in an instant.
The red that should have been there was absent.
He shot upright and kicked her. She tumbled straight to the brocade stool at the foot of the bed, her forehead striking it with a sharp crack.
The bronze brazier clanged, scattering sparks across the hall. Zhu Di’s voice was low, but sharp as an icicle. “Who have you slept with? Speak!”
The girl cried until her voice gave out, then thudded her head against the floor again and again. Shards of ice in the cracks between the bricks cut her forehead, leaving a string of blood droplets. After a long, trembling silence, she stammered out a name. “Ji… Ji Gang.”
Ji Gang: Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, in charge of the imperial prison. That very day, he had dragged the youngest son of a Vice Minister of War into the Northern Branch of the Guard’s Investigations Bureau.
Zhu Di relied on him because he was ruthless, swift, and merciless—like a mastiff trained to obey. But even the most obedient dog must not lick its master’s bowl.
After hearing the name, Zhu Di said no more. He merely threw on a fox-fur cloak, stepped barefoot onto the floor, and pushed open the hall doors.
The cold wind swept snow inside, whipping the curtains into a frenzy. He stood in the doorway like a red-hot iron plunged into snowmelt, hissing as white steam rose from it.
“Summon Ji Gang.” The three words were as soft as a whisper. The eunuch at the door nearly dropped to his knees in the snow.
Ji Gang was warming himself at the Northern Branch office, a pot of strong liquor beside him and a half-flayed human skeleton laid out in front of him.
When he heard the Emperor was calling, he wiped the grease from his hands, donned his python robe, strapped on his Embroidered Spring Saber, and galloped into the Forbidden City.
On the way, he thought up three explanations: the girl had falsely accused him, hoping to save herself; someone had used his name to frame a loyal official; or he had been drunk and done it, but couldn’t remember.
But when he crossed the Gate of Heavenly Purity and saw Zhu Di standing in the snow in nothing but a thin robe, with a blood-soaked bundle of cotton robes kneeling by his feet, his mind went blank. All three excuses shattered.
Zhu Di did not let him kneel. He simply raised a fist and struck him squarely across the bridge of the nose. Ji Gang’s blood spattered the snow like a handful of vermilion powder.
“You touched one of my women?” Ji Gang didn’t wipe away the blood. He dropped straight to both knees. “Your subject deserves to die.” His blunt answer left Zhu Di momentarily stunned.
Zhu Di stared at him. Snow settled on both their shoulders, gathering into a thin white layer.
The eunuchs and palace maids nearby had already retreated thirty paces. In the snow, only the Emperor, the commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, and the little girl sobbing so hard she could barely breathe remained.
Zhu Di turned and went back into the hall. The doors stayed open, and the wind made the candle flames reel from side to side.
He picked up the three-foot paperweight from the imperial desk, ebony inlaid with bronze, and swung it at Ji Gang’s shoulder blade. It landed with a dull crack. Ji Gang staggered, but made no sound.
“You’ve served me for ten years. I gave you a python robe, estates, and the right to execute first and report later. And you repay me by putting a green hat on my head?”
Ji Gang lowered his head. Blood dripped onto his instep, burning a tiny hole in the snow.
Zhu Di drew a deep breath, as if forcing a fire back down his throat. “Go to the Northern Branch and take forty strokes yourself.
“Starting tomorrow, write out the full list of our covert agents in Jiaozhi. Leave out even one name, and your nine generations will pay for it.”
Ji Gang kowtowed. The snow beneath him turned red at once.
As for the girl, Zhu Di did not look at her again. He merely ordered a eunuch, “Send her out of the palace. Give her two hundred strings of paper money. Tell her family to keep quiet.”
Two hundred strings was enough to buy a small house in the capital. It bought her silence.
The next day, Ji Gang dragged his ruined back to court as usual. The smell of medicine and blood seeped from beneath his python robe. No one in the court dared come within three paces of him.
Zhu Di acted as though nothing had happened and questioned him about military preparations in Jiaozhi as usual. Their exchange was flawless.
But that twelfth lunar month, Ji Gang was ordered to oversee the transport of military grain. Along the way, he “happened” to run into bandits, who cut off his head.
The bandits vanished without a trace, but the intelligence from Jiaozhi arrived intact in the capital.
The day the girl left the capital, the snow stopped.
Clutching her two hundred strings of paper money, she kowtowed three times outside Yongding Gate. The old scar on her forehead split open, and her blood dripped onto the snow like a vermilion seal. After that, the historical records never mentioned her again.
Power fears nothing so much as the dog it has raised with its own hands. When a dog bites its master, the master can kill the dog—or kill everyone who saw the wound.
One kick on a snowy night toppled more than a bed in the imperial chamber. It shattered the myth that ruler and subject were bound by unbreakable trust.
And that fire Zhu Di forced himself to swallow—did it burn through his gut?
The historians never wrote it down. So, six hundred years later, all we can do is listen for the faint crunch of snow beneath someone’s feet.
Furious, Zhu Di kicked her off the bed. “Tell me! Who have you been carrying on with?”
The girl trembled as she wept and kowtowed over and over. At last, she gave a name: Ji Gang, Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.
On the sixteenth day of the first lunar month, the eunuchs crunched over the ice as they led the last group of tribute girls from Jiangnan into the Palace of Heavenly Purity.
They were only fourteen or fifteen. After finishing his memorials in the warm pavilion, Zhu Di glanced up and casually pointed to the palest girl at the end of the line. “Her.”
The palace maids bathed her, perfumed her, and made her drink a mouthful of warmed cassia-branch wine before helping her into bed. Zhu Di had no patience for fuss. As soon as the curtain fell, he reached for her.
The girl trembled more violently than the snow outside, her teeth chattering so loudly she could hear them herself. Zhu Di touched the sash of her trousers. His fingers stopped. His face darkened in an instant.
The red that should have been there was absent.
He shot upright and kicked her. She tumbled straight to the brocade stool at the foot of the bed, her forehead striking it with a sharp crack.
The bronze brazier clanged, scattering sparks across the hall. Zhu Di’s voice was low, but sharp as an icicle. “Who have you slept with? Speak!”
The girl cried until her voice gave out, then thudded her head against the floor again and again. Shards of ice in the cracks between the bricks cut her forehead, leaving a string of blood droplets. After a long, trembling silence, she stammered out a name. “Ji… Ji Gang.”
Ji Gang: Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, in charge of the imperial prison. That very day, he had dragged the youngest son of a Vice Minister of War into the Northern Branch of the Guard’s Investigations Bureau.
Zhu Di relied on him because he was ruthless, swift, and merciless—like a mastiff trained to obey. But even the most obedient dog must not lick its master’s bowl.
After hearing the name, Zhu Di said no more. He merely threw on a fox-fur cloak, stepped barefoot onto the floor, and pushed open the hall doors.
The cold wind swept snow inside, whipping the curtains into a frenzy. He stood in the doorway like a red-hot iron plunged into snowmelt, hissing as white steam rose from it.
“Summon Ji Gang.” The three words were as soft as a whisper. The eunuch at the door nearly dropped to his knees in the snow.
Ji Gang was warming himself at the Northern Branch office, a pot of strong liquor beside him and a half-flayed human skeleton laid out in front of him.
When he heard the Emperor was calling, he wiped the grease from his hands, donned his python robe, strapped on his Embroidered Spring Saber, and galloped into the Forbidden City.
On the way, he thought up three explanations: the girl had falsely accused him, hoping to save herself; someone had used his name to frame a loyal official; or he had been drunk and done it, but couldn’t remember.
But when he crossed the Gate of Heavenly Purity and saw Zhu Di standing in the snow in nothing but a thin robe, with a blood-soaked bundle of cotton robes kneeling by his feet, his mind went blank. All three excuses shattered.
Zhu Di did not let him kneel. He simply raised a fist and struck him squarely across the bridge of the nose. Ji Gang’s blood spattered the snow like a handful of vermilion powder.
“You touched one of my women?” Ji Gang didn’t wipe away the blood. He dropped straight to both knees. “Your subject deserves to die.” His blunt answer left Zhu Di momentarily stunned.
Zhu Di stared at him. Snow settled on both their shoulders, gathering into a thin white layer.
The eunuchs and palace maids nearby had already retreated thirty paces. In the snow, only the Emperor, the commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, and the little girl sobbing so hard she could barely breathe remained.
Zhu Di turned and went back into the hall. The doors stayed open, and the wind made the candle flames reel from side to side.
He picked up the three-foot paperweight from the imperial desk, ebony inlaid with bronze, and swung it at Ji Gang’s shoulder blade. It landed with a dull crack. Ji Gang staggered, but made no sound.
“You’ve served me for ten years. I gave you a python robe, estates, and the right to execute first and report later. And you repay me by putting a green hat on my head?”
Ji Gang lowered his head. Blood dripped onto his instep, burning a tiny hole in the snow.
Zhu Di drew a deep breath, as if forcing a fire back down his throat. “Go to the Northern Branch and take forty strokes yourself.
“Starting tomorrow, write out the full list of our covert agents in Jiaozhi. Leave out even one name, and your nine generations will pay for it.”
Ji Gang kowtowed. The snow beneath him turned red at once.
As for the girl, Zhu Di did not look at her again. He merely ordered a eunuch, “Send her out of the palace. Give her two hundred strings of paper money. Tell her family to keep quiet.”
Two hundred strings was enough to buy a small house in the capital. It bought her silence.
The next day, Ji Gang dragged his ruined back to court as usual. The smell of medicine and blood seeped from beneath his python robe. No one in the court dared come within three paces of him.
Zhu Di acted as though nothing had happened and questioned him about military preparations in Jiaozhi as usual. Their exchange was flawless.
But that twelfth lunar month, Ji Gang was ordered to oversee the transport of military grain. Along the way, he “happened” to run into bandits, who cut off his head.
The bandits vanished without a trace, but the intelligence from Jiaozhi arrived intact in the capital.
The day the girl left the capital, the snow stopped.
Clutching her two hundred strings of paper money, she kowtowed three times outside Yongding Gate. The old scar on her forehead split open, and her blood dripped onto the snow like a vermilion seal. After that, the historical records never mentioned her again.
Power fears nothing so much as the dog it has raised with its own hands. When a dog bites its master, the master can kill the dog—or kill everyone who saw the wound.
One kick on a snowy night toppled more than a bed in the imperial chamber. It shattered the myth that ruler and subject were bound by unbreakable trust.
And that fire Zhu Di forced himself to swallow—did it burn through his gut?
The historians never wrote it down. So, six hundred years later, all we can do is listen for the faint crunch of snow beneath someone’s feet.
