Outside, the morning light was bright, but none of it reached the prison cell. Gloomy and dim, the air thick with a putrid stench, made it almost impossible to distinguish day from night.
“Still feeding us this crap?”
Xu Bangchui shouted, eyeing the bucket of food dumped outside the cell—black and unidentifiable.
The jailer pretended not to hear and walked away.
Fuming, Xu Bangchui scooped himself a bowl.
“Be glad you can still eat this,” someone from the neighboring cell said. “When the good food comes, it means your time’s up.”
Xu Bangchui ignored him, squatting down to eat in silence.
“Ugh, this tastes awful,” he muttered.
“We’ve eaten worse than this before!” Fan Jianglin snapped under his breath.
“Yeah, but lately we’ve been eating pretty well…” Xu Bangchui replied, then quickly ducked his head when Fan Jianglin glared at him. Raising his bowl, he added, “I’ll get used to it again in a few days…”
“In a few days, you probably won’t even get to eat this,” the man in the neighboring cell couldn’t help chiming in. “Everyone here is awaiting trial. Once the verdict comes, you’ll either be released and go back to eating good food, or sentenced to hard labor in a prison camp—where you won’t even get meals like this. Or else…” He paused. “You’ll get one last decent meal before they chop your head off. After that, you won’t be eating anything, good or rotten…”
Apart from Xu Bangchui, the others also took their bowls and scooped up the food. Some sat, some squatted, eating in silence without a word.
But that didn’t stop the man in the neighboring cell from continuing.
“…Hey, what kind of people are you, anyway? You must have some serious backing, right? Since you got here, you haven’t been beaten or tortured—no one’s even dared to curse at you…”
“…You don’t have to tell me—I already know. People like you are the most dangerous… Either nothing happens, or something really big happens…”
No sooner had his words faded than footsteps echoed, followed by the scent of something fragrant wafting in.
“Hey, you lot—stop eating that,” the jailer shouted, lowering another wooden bucket.
Everyone turned at the sound—and the smell—to see a bucket full of mutton.
Xu Bangchui let out a loud “Whoa!” and rushed over, grabbing a big bone with his bare hands.
“Hey, hey, don’t be so hasty! This… this isn’t your last meal, is it?” the man in the neighboring cell called out.
At his words, the other men who had gathered froze.
But the jailer still said nothing, turning and walking away.
“Probably not. If it were, they’d have told you,” the neighbor remarked, peering over at Xu Bangchui’s group.
In the dim light of the cell, their faces—filthy and obscured by unkempt hair and beards—were unreadable. But their astonishment was easy to imagine.
“Hey, who the hell are you people? How come you’re getting such special treatment?”
Xu Bangchui and the others ignored him.
“Hey, hey—thanks for the favor! How about some good wine to go with this?” Xu Bangchui called out indistinctly to the retreating jailer, his mouth half-full.
The other men laughed in agreement.
“Yeah, bring us some good wine!” they chimed in, already tearing into the mutton with gusto.
Fan Jianglin picked up two meaty bones and walked over to the wall, handing one to Xu Maoxiu.
“Here,” he said, then sat down and began devouring the other bone himself.
Xu Maoxiu took it but didn’t eat.
“What? You’ve already died once—still scared?” Fan Jianglin asked with a chuckle.
“Not scared,” Xu Maoxiu exhaled, shaking the meat bone in his hand. “Sooner or later, it’s all the same. What’s there to fear? It’s just… she must be furious and desperate out there. If we die, a proud and stubborn girl like her… she’ll carry that scar for life. Thinking of that, I just can’t bring myself to—” His voice tightened. “To have dragged her into this…”
Fan Jianglin chewed his meat in silence for a moment, then finally sighed.
“Such is fate,” he said.
Old Master Chen had already paced several rounds in the courtyard, the thin fabric at his back faintly damp with sweat.
“Old Master, perhaps you should rest awhile,” urged the elderly servant following him.
Old Master Chen halted his steps, took the offered walking cane, and let out a long breath.
“Has the master returned?” he asked.
The old servant hastily inquired of a young attendant nearby, who dashed off and returned shortly after.
“The master has returned,” the attendant reported.
Old Master Chen’s face remained expressionless as he stood there, one hand kneading his waist.
“Shall I summon the master?” the elderly servant asked.
Old Master Chen shook his head and remained silent.
“Old Master, Old Master!” Another attendant came running. “Lady Cheng is here.”
Old Master Chen’s expression shifted.
“So she’s finally come,” he murmured to himself.
In his study, Chen Shao was thinking the very same words—though unlike his father, he had one more thought:
So fast!
The court had only just reached its decision this morning. How could she have learned of it so quickly?
Chen Shao was certain no more than ten people knew the outcome. Those who had been present before the throne were all figures of significant standing—how had this girl obtained the news with such speed?
The Qin family?
Today, Lecturer Qin was on leave…
Tong Neihan?
Since his miraculous recovery from death, he had abandoned his obsession with alchemy—only to plunge deeper into Daoist devotion.
After all, it was the legendary Daoist Patriarch’s disciple who had saved his life.
What did that mean? It meant he had a connection to the divine!
Thus, instead of returning to duty after his recovery, Tong Neihan remained at home—not to convalesce, but to cultivate immortality.
As for the Zhou family, they were hardly worth considering. They couldn’t even set foot in the Imperial Archives, let alone the inner palace halls.
Could this girl have connections to some other powerful figure in the capital?
Or perhaps he was overthinking it.
Maybe she had simply come to seek help. Assuming it a minor matter days ago, she had relied on the Zhou family to intervene—but with no resolution in sight, she had now turned to him instead.
The maid serving tea withdrew, leaving the two seated across from each other in the study.
“I come uninvited solely for the lives of my sworn brothers. Might you grant them reprieve?” Cheng Jiao-niang cut straight to the point.
So he had overthought it…
Chen Shao shook his head with a self-deprecating smile.
“You’ve heard the news,” he said, composing himself before sighing. “You trusted me, which is why you didn’t seek me out immediately after the incident. Naturally, I would have intervened on your behalf. But this matter involves military affairs at the court level—ultimately, the law cannot be bent.”
Cheng Jiao-niang nodded.
“I understand. The desertion case has far-reaching implications,” she said. “Executing my brothers is merely a swift stroke to cut the knot—to prevent you, my lord, from using this opportunity to investigate military affairs. That’s why you’re so furious right now.”
Chen Shao’s expression flickered with surprise before settling into a wry smile.
“So even court disputes have come to your attention?” he remarked.
“Then do you intend to concede defeat?” Cheng Jiao-niang countered, sidestepping his question.
“Concede? Never.” Chen Shao’s demeanor turned grave. “Deserters must be executed by law, and negligence must be thoroughly investigated. The rot in military administration breeds desertion—without reform, future calamities are inevitable.” His voice grew steel-edged, as if he were once again standing before the throne. “Wang Butang and his faction deceive the emperor, sacrificing state affairs for private gain—their crimes demand punishment. This military defeat stems from years of corruption, yet some still shield them, seeking their reinstatement. Ancient texts tell of Jizi recognizing Shang’s doom from King Zhou’s ivory chopsticks—what then does Wang Butang’s brazen manipulation of northwestern military affairs reveal? Embezzling funds, disguising defeats as victories, deceiving the court for years while enjoying protection—is this not treason? I cannot stand silent while His Majesty is deceived. These traitors must be purged!”
His words rang with the same fervor as his earlier imperial audience.
That vile Grand Coordinator Gao and his ilk—sophists who bickered when outmatched, ranted when outargued, dragging in irrelevancies to shield Wang Butang’s crimes. Some leveraged seniority, others imperial kinship, growing ever more brazen in their obstruction.
Yet most of Chen’s own faction lacked standing for direct audience, leaving him often isolated in the vast court—a lone voice against the chorus.
Chen Shao took a deep breath, observing the girl’s impassive expression before him. Realizing his outburst, he cleared his throat lightly to compose himself.
“Such matters are not for you youngsters to concern yourselves with,” he said.
Cheng Jiao-niang bowed respectfully.
“Your integrity shines as bright as the sun and moon,” she replied, then raised her head. “Since rooting out long-standing corruption is of greater importance, would executing a few men truly serve any purpose? Might their lives be spared, allowing them to atone through meritorious service?”
Chen Shao gave another light cough.
“Their crimes demand execution—this is to uphold military discipline. The law cannot be bent to personal whims,” he stated firmly.
“Though they committed crimes, their circumstances were dire. Could mercy not temper justice in this case?” Cheng Jiao-niang pressed.
“Lady Cheng,” Chen Shao said with a light cough, “Heaven’s justice is clear, and men’s hearts know right from wrong. The corruption in the northwestern military is plain for all to see—this is not a matter I will let rest. Once His Majesty grants approval to send high-ranking officials to investigate thoroughly, the guilty will be brought to justice. Then, those wronged shall have their vindication.”
“Those not in office should not meddle in state affairs,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied. “I simply fail to understand—why must vindication come only through death?”
Chen Shao fell silent for a moment, studying her.
“Lady Cheng, as the poem says: Heaven and earth are but an inn for all creatures; time is but a passing traveler through the ages. Floating life is but a dream.” His expression softened with solemnity and a touch of lament. “No matter who one is, if this fleeting dream of life can find its proper place, then the journey through this world is not in vain.”
“You speak with profound insight,” Cheng Jiao-niang said, her gaze steady on him. “Then—you’re saying that they must die this time?”
From beginning to end, this was the only question she had truly come to ask—unyielding, relentless.
Silence filled the room, stretching like an eternity yet perhaps lasting only a single breath.
“Yes,” Chen Shao finally uttered, the word deliberate, his resolve unwavering.
