Chapter 839

Pan Hong and his son remained seriously ill until the Emperor departed the capital.

The Emperor took many people with him; the streets showed little change, but several main districts where officials lived grew much quieter.

The street where Pan Hong and his family rented their home became far quieter than before—many officials had followed the imperial procession, and with fathers away, the children at home seemed less mischievous; the daily morning and evening shouts of scolding children suddenly vanished.

Pan Hong, lying on a reclining chair basking in the sun, felt deeply bored. He struggled to push himself up with his arms and slowly made his way to the door.

Pan Yue, sitting by the window with a book in hand, looked at him in surprise: "Father?"

Pan Hong waved at him lazily and said: "Too quiet. I'm going out for a walk."

But his body was too weak to go far—he could only sit on the threshold, staring blankly at the silent street.

It wasn't until evening, when the schoolchildren returned home, that the quiet street regained a hint of life.

The gates of the houses next door and across the way finally opened to welcome the children back.

Mothers instructed their children: "Your fathers have joined the Emperor on campaign. Don't be naughty at home. How was your studies today? Did you listen to Mr.?"

After questioning their children, the neighbors finally noticed Pan Hong sitting on the threshold, and their voices softened by a third: "Lord Pan, enjoying the sun?"

Pan Hong nodded slowly and smiled warmly: "Yes, enjoying the sun."

"Sunbathing is good. More sun means better health."

After chatting a few more moments, they pulled their children inside, shut their gates, and faint, sorrowful murmurs drifted out from within: "... He's wasted away to nothing. No one knows what illness it is—it hasn't improved yet. How pitiful."

"His eldest son is also seriously ill and hasn't left the house. His second son has been sent to the front. I heard he has a young daughter too—given to a Daoist temple as a child because of his wrongful persecution long ago. Sigh~~"

That evening, neighbors from next door and across the street came over with bowls: chicken soup with several pieces of meat, poached eggs, and stir-fried pork.

The father and son didn't need to cook—they only needed the old servant to boil some rice for a meal.

The neighbors seemed to have taken a liking to bringing food to Pan Hong and his son: today one family delivered, tomorrow another.

Some neighbors even taught Pan Hong to lay out the clothes worn by father and son at the door, letting people step on them, claiming this would carry away the illness spirits and bring healing.

Pan Hong politely refused, saying their illness was not contagious, but since its cause remained unknown, they should not expose their sick garments to the outside.

The neighbors sighed: "It's all the Ghost Month's fault. The yin energy is heavy, and it's stiflingly hot—perhaps they've picked up something unclean. Tomorrow we'll go to Bai Yun Temple to pray for blessings and get you two protective charms. Maybe then you'll recover."

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Whether it was the protective charms the neighbors had obtained, or whether the illness had simply reached its nadir, Pan Hong and his son were indeed improving.

By the time July ended and August arrived, Pan Hong and Pan Yue could finally leave their homes—one to return to work, the other to school.

Their colleagues and classmates were startled to see them: "You were this seriously ill?"

They clearly looked like convalescents—pale complexions, their clothes hanging loosely on their frames.

Pan Yue smiled bitterly: "Much better now. A few days ago, I couldn't even get out of bed."

His classmates felt deep sympathy and immediately helped him sit down.

Pan Yue asked: "Have there been any updates from the Emperor's campaign?"

"They've only been on the march for seven days—how could news arrive so soon?"

Pan Hong was also asking his colleagues the same question.

Imperial court news was far more timely than that of the Imperial Academy, but the Honglu Temple was a minor department; officials there received little information.

"From decree to departure, they had only two days to prepare. In such haste, how well could it go? I passed by the Ministry of War and the Ministry of Revenue the other day—both were in chaos. I heard the Imperial Astronomical Bureau predicted the north is entering the rainy season; marching in the rain..."

Pan Hong suddenly remembered: Yin Song had not visited since his initial visit. He froze, startled, and asked: "Who from the Imperial Astronomical Bureau accompanied the Emperor?"

When the Emperor traveled, he took a portion of the imperial court with him—so not only officials from the Six Ministries went, but also representatives from the Imperial Astronomical Bureau.

"The Director of the Imperial Astronomical Bureau and the Summer and Autumn Officials accompanied him with their retinue. Why?"

Pan Hong opened his mouth but could not speak.

Yin Song had joined the army.

For some reason, ever since the Emperor announced his intention to lead the campaign personally, his heart had been pounding—fast, frantic—and left him deeply uneasy.

Another who shared Yin Song's unease was the newly appointed Minister of War, Kuang Ye. Last night, he and Chen Xun had been ordered to kneel outside the tent, drenched in rain all night; today, he accidentally fell from his horse.

His subordinates pulled him from beneath the hooves and barely saved him. He lay on the grass, staring blankly at the gloomy sky.

Han Wen, the Physician of the Ministry of War, wept beside him.

Kuang Ye mustered strength, turned his head, and smiled at him: "Why cry? I'm perfectly fine."

"The military physician says your leg and head are injured—you'll suffer dizziness and vomiting. My lord, please petition the Emperor to return to Huailai City for treatment?"

Kuang Ye forced out the words, fighting nausea: "The Emperor himself has gone to war—how can we hide behind illness?"

He insisted on continuing.

Han Wen had no choice but to wipe his tears and help his men carry Kuang Ye onto a cart.

It was a cart meant for luggage—only a flat bed, no sides. Kuang Ye's leg injury made riding impossible; he could only huddle among the baggage, leaning against a crate, swaying as the column moved forward.

He gazed at the endless line ahead, then back at the endless line behind, and a profound sorrow welled in his chest—he felt he was leading his soldiers to a battle they would surely die in.

They outnumbered the enemy, outarmed them, even outmatched them in generals—yet he felt certain of defeat.

He looked down at his palm, trying to lift his hand, but it lay limp, motionless.

Three horses galloped toward them from the side; the central rider was Minister of Revenue Chen Xun. He cried out anxiously: "Old Kuang, what happened?"

Kuang Ye smiled at him: "Too old. Useless. Fell off my horse."

Chen Xun exclaimed: "Oh no!" and pointed to the man beside him: "This is Xia Guanzheng Yin Song of the Imperial Astronomical Bureau."

Yin Song bowed from horseback, solemnly stating: "Minister Kuang, heavy rain is coming tonight—it may last three days. The north is in its rainy season; marching in the rain risks frostbite among the troops."

Kuang Ye murmured: "It will crush morale... the morale the Emperor's personal campaign had raised will be worn away."

If morale collapsed, the Emperor's personal campaign would become meaningless.

Kuang Ye mustered his weakened body and told Chen Xun: "Go petition the Emperor. I demand he return to the capital."

Chen Xun doubted the Emperor would listen—but they had to try.

He sighed and nodded in agreement.

Fine, I've already been kneeling all night; might as well kneel another night.