“Has she not come again?”
Old Master Chen asked.
The elderly servant nodded.
“The punishment for the deserter has been decided, hasn’t it?” Old Master Chen asked again.
The elderly servant nodded once more.
“That was settled long ago—there’s no dispute between the two sides on that,” he said.
The disagreement lay in what would happen after the deserter was executed.
Old Master Chen pondered for a moment.
“Has she sought out anyone else?” he asked.
This time, the elderly servant shook his head.
“No,” he replied, then paused, his expression hesitant. “But she did visit… the academy of Master Jiangzhou.”
Zhang Chun?
Right. They’re both from Jiangzhou—could they have known each other all along?
If Zhang Chun steps in…
But why would that stubborn, orthodox scholar speak up for a deserter whose guilt has already been confirmed?
“…However, it’s said her fourth brother studies at the academy. The siblings spoke, and the brother even gave her some money…” the old servant continued.
This made Old Master Chen nod.
“Now that makes sense. So it was never a possibility in the first place.”
She had no one left to turn to—or rather, no one who could actually help.
This girl had once been renowned in the capital, but her strict conditions for treatment and her merciless refusals cost her the chance to befriend the city’s elite. Without any new, astonishing achievements to shock the capital, her fame had waned. In a place as fickle as the capital, Cheng Jiao-niang no longer held the same prestige she had six months ago. Even if she tried to leverage her medical skills to build connections now, the effect would be negligible.
Surely this clever girl knew that herself.
“Actually, Lady Cheng has already gone above and beyond for those seven men. This matter won’t involve her in the slightest—there’ll be no repercussions at all. She must have let it go by now,” the old servant said.
Old Master Chen shook his head.
“She hasn’t,” he replied.
Beyond her intelligence, she was also an exceedingly proud girl.
And proud people never give up.
“Tell me, what’s the latest gossip in the city?” he suddenly asked, as if struck by a thought. “Something about a man falling to his death?”
“Ah, yes. A man collapsed and died while running on the street outside Immortal’s Abode,” the old servant answered.
Countless odd incidents happened daily in the capital, but fortunately, Old Master Chen only tasked him with keeping tabs on matters related to Lady Cheng—her acquaintances and her shops.
Though a man dropping dead in the street was unusual, it wasn’t entirely unheard of. If it hadn’t happened right outside Immortal’s Abode, the old servant wouldn’t have paid it any mind.
He had mentioned it in passing to Old Master Chen and had nearly forgotten it himself.
Old Master Chen fell silent for a moment.
Could this man’s death have something to do with that girl?
“He was a minor gate clerk, fond of gambling, and had married into his wife’s family. He was so frightened by his father-in-law that he stumbled and fell to his death,” the old servant continued.
Hearing this, Old Master Chen relaxed and shook his head with self-mockery.
Had his prejudice grown so deep that he now linked every death in the capital to that girl?
Her ruthless nature had left too strong an impression on him.
He turned his gaze to the folding screen in the room, where several marked dots, though faded with time, remained glaringly visible.
“Truth be told, even if those deserters hadn’t died, it wouldn’t have affected the master and the others much, would it?” the old servant murmured.
Old Master Chen nodded.
“It wouldn’t have mattered, but it would have been a distraction,” he said, taking a deep breath. “And right now, they can’t afford to spare even a sliver of attention for such… trivial matters. That’s just how things are—sacrificing pawns to protect the king. That’s why everyone strives to be the king, not the pawn.”
The old servant nodded silently and said no more.
“Living in the capital is never easy, and life seldom goes as one wishes,” Old Master Chen remarked as he stood up. “For the young, some hardship may not be such a bad thing.”
Seeing Old Master Chen step outside, the old servant hurried to follow.
“Has the master gone to the palace?” Old Master Chen asked.
The old servant nodded.
“Three days have passed—it should be time for the outcome to be decided,” Old Master Chen said, standing beneath the corridor and gazing at the sky.
Dark clouds loomed overhead, foretelling an autumn rain.
“Let us visit Qieting Temple,” Old Master Chen said. “We’ll light incense and listen to some Zen teachings.”
Regardless of the outcome this time, the aftermath would not be light.
Though the wise keep ghosts and gods at a distance, in times of trouble, people still seek solace in something greater.
The old servant acknowledged the order and quickly went to prepare the carriage.
At the same time, thick smoke rose from the Hall of the Goddess in Puxiu Temple—the most convenient and spiritually efficacious temple within the city.
“Father, must you burn so much incense?”
Coughing, Lady Dong waved her hand to disperse the smoke.
Master Dong had already planted a bundle of thick incense sticks into the burner before the altar and was now kowtowing with utmost reverence.
“What are you doing? Come and bow at once!” he barked.
With obvious reluctance, Lady Dong approached. Master Dong then hurriedly directed the nursemaids to bring his two young grandsons forward to pay respects. The children, of course, understood nothing of this—to them, it was just play. They giggled and laughed as they bowed, earning them a fierce scolding from Master Dong.
“Father, what do children know? Their bows are meaningless,” Lady Dong said irritably, shielding her sons.
“Whether they understand or not, they must bow—this concerns the lives of our entire family!” Master Dong hissed under his breath, glaring. “Kneel down quickly and pray for Xu Maoxiu and the others’ safety!”
This plea, at least, was one Madam Dong genuinely shared.
Before the Hall of the Goddess, the family—young and old—occupied so much space that other worshippers had no choice but to wait, sparking murmurs and pointed glances among the crowd.
Imperial Palace, Chonghua Gate
A eunuch suddenly gestured in this direction. Moments later, Duke Jin’an emerged leisurely from the side, passing through a palace gate only to see the First Prince approaching.
“Your Highness, where are you heading so early?”
Duke Jin’an stepped forward, offering a salute first, then asked with a playful grin.
“So early?”
The First Prince glanced up at the sky. Only someone as idle as him would consider this hour “early.”
“His Majesty has commanded me to attend the morning court,” the First Prince replied. Though he couldn’t be bothered with this man, the matter at hand was worth boasting about.
At eleven years old, this was not the First Prince’s first time attending court.
“Is it fun?” Duke Jin’an asked with genuine curiosity. “I’ve heard the ministers often quarrel—quite fiercely, too.”
For a teenager, attending court was naturally dull and tedious. But knowing that some would never even have the chance to experience such tedium made it oddly satisfying in this moment.
“Indeed. Yesterday, Minister Chen and Grand Coordinator Gao argued for a full hour right in the hall. Just listening exhausted me—I’ve no idea how they muster the energy,” the First Prince remarked.
“That long?” Duke Jin’an feigned shock, his expression one of horrified avoidance. “How grueling.”
As they spoke, they neared the Chongzheng Hall.
“I’ll be leaving the palace now. Your Highness should hurry along,” he said, not without a hint of pity.
The First Prince nodded with haughty indifference.
Go play, you waste of space.
Out of deference, Duke Jin’an waited until the First Prince had entered the hall before turning to depart.
All the officials from the Council of State had arrived, along with the Imperial Censorate Deputy and other high-ranking courtiers.
The attendees were exactly the same as three days prior—no difference whatsoever.
Duke Jin’an’s expression darkened slightly, and his footsteps unconsciously quickened. Suddenly, he halted, his gaze fixed ahead.
A tall, imposing official was approaching at a measured pace. Though dark clouds gathered overhead and thunder rumbled in the distance, the man’s stride remained unaffected. Anyone watching could tell that even if the rain were to pour down violently, this official would not falter in the slightest.
“Chief Editor Zhang has arrived…” Duke Jin’an murmured, narrowing his eyes. “Finally, some change… Today’s court session is bound to be even more contentious than before…”
He kept his eyes on Zhang Chun until the man had fully entered the hall before finally looking away.
The rolling thunder in the sky finally merged into a continuous roar, followed by a downpour of heavy raindrops.
Outside the hall, the thunder gradually faded, and the torrential rain softened into a drizzle.
Had it been raining for half an hour already?
Or longer?
The First Prince wanted to glance at the water clock, but as his eyes shifted slightly, his view was blocked by one seated and two standing figures.
In this grand hall of over a dozen people, the only ones permitted to sit—aside from the exalted emperor and himself, the imperial prince—were the Imperial Censorate Deputy.
The Imperial Censorate Deputy, now in his fifties, sat with a dark expression, his face wooden.
How can he sit so rigidly without tiring?
The First Prince couldn’t help fidgeting slightly. Behind him, a eunuch gave a soft, discreet cough—a reminder to maintain proper decorum.
This is exhausting…
Even more tedious than lectures…
As the thunder outside grew distant, the clamor inside the hall only swelled louder.
“…Untrained soldiers, rampant empty payrolls—utterly appalling…”
“Hence we must reorganize and drill them, weed out the weak and aged, and retain only the capable… Jiang Wenyuan is a man of great talent, having devised new military tactics with proven success in Wei-zhou. He should be entrusted with greater responsibility…”
“…Jiang Wenyuan shielded his subordinates when they brawled and killed a man in Wei-zhou, manipulating the verdict to acquit them outright. How can such a man be fit for high office?…”
“…Minister Liu, what of the servants from your ancestral estate who beat a passerby to death in the streets? Does this not prove your own moral corruption?…”
“…Your Majesty, this old subject demands to impeach him for slander! I submit my resignation!”
The First Prince couldn’t suppress a small yawn.
No one would notice anyway—not with all these men shouting themselves hoarse.
What are they even arguing about? Is this what His Majesty endures daily in court? How unbearably dull.
Why not just settle it with fists? Whoever wins gets their way.
The idea energized him. Watching the dozen-odd officials brandishing their ceremonial tablets, spittle flying, faces flushed with rage, he began mentally picturing them brawling—and nearly laughed aloud.
“…Dare I ask Vice Councillor Chen—if Jiang Wenyuan is unsuitable, then who is?!”
“…Zhong Chengbu, Military Commissioner of Xi-zhou…”
“…Zhong Chengbu is merely twenty-eight, having entered office through hereditary privilege. How can he bear such responsibility?!”
“…When the Zhong clan rallied their entire family to resist the enemy, thirteen men died in battle, leaving only Chengbu as heir. Gifted in both letters and arms since youth, he once led troops deep into enemy territory and returned victorious—a talent like Huo Qubing himself…”
“…Vice Councillor Chen, let us hope he shares Huo Qubing’s brilliance but not his fate… Early success and heavy burdens may shorten one’s lifespan. Best guard against premature death…”
Chen Shao seethed with anger.
This was their usual tactic—when outmatched in debate, they resorted to nonsense, dragging in irrelevant provocations to disgust their opponents.
He was about to retort when someone stepped forward first.
“Your Majesty, I have a memorial to present.”
The voice drew every gaze in the hall. When the speaker became clear, astonished expressions rippled through the assembly.
Among the dozen or so officials in the hall, the debate had been dominated by two factions—with Chen Shao and Grand Coordinator Gao as the main speakers, while others seized opportunities to bolster their respective sides. Apart from them, a few remained silent and motionless, like clay or wooden puppets placed there for decoration.
These individuals included the Censorate, the Advisor to the Crown Prince, and the newly promoted Chief Editor of the Three Institutes and Chief Editor Zhang Chun.
Zhang Chun was devoted to scholarly pursuits and rarely participated in court debates unless they concerned the imperial examinations. Moreover, he skipped court seven out of ten times, and even when present, he seldom spoke.
His sudden interjection now took everyone by surprise.
Even the emperor, who had seemed to be dozing on his dragon throne, opened his eyes and looked over.
“Granted,” the emperor said slowly.
Zhang Chun expressed his gratitude before turning around.
“You people are utterly disgraceful!” he rebuked sternly, his expression severe.
The entire hall was stunned into silence, followed by suppressed fury.
To remain silent all this time, only to suddenly lash out with insults!
What grievance do you have against us?!
But before Chen Shao and the others could retort, the Censorate immediately stepped in to reprimand him.
“Zhang Chun has insulted his colleagues and shown disrespect before His Majesty! He must be punished by the authorities!” two standing censorates shouted immediately.
“And you useless fools!” Zhang Chun instantly whirled around to roar at them. “You see me ‘insulting colleagues’ and ‘showing disrespect,’ yet when these scoundrels intimidate His Majesty with their words and show no regard for imperial authority, your eyes go blind?!”
His words sent the entire hall’s blood boiling in fury.
Useless fools! Scoundrels! Blind!
Though harsh words were no rarity in court debates, being so directly and viciously berated to one’s face was truly uncommon.
This Zhang Chun—clearly a great Confucian scholar—could speak with such vulgarity. No wonder he had once provoked someone to hire assassins during philosophical disputes.
The glares directed at him now could have killed him several times over.
Yet his outburst was in defense of imperial authority. Truth be told, after days of listening to these endless quarrels, even the emperor had grown weary…
As the ruler, he could not voice such frustrations himself. Having someone else shout them out was, admittedly, cathartic.
The corners of the emperor’s lips twitched upward briefly. A sovereign must never reveal his emotions openly, so he quickly suppressed it.
But that fleeting movement did not escape the sharp eyes of several seasoned ministers, who inwardly cursed in disgust.
Hypocritical “Guardian of Orthodoxy”—yet you grovel before the throne with such ease!
In philosophical disputes, there was no room for courtesy. Having weathered countless ideological battles, Zhang Chun had long shed any sense of shame. That he would spew such brazen words was hardly surprising.
Yet none present were wooden puppets to endure abuse silently. Several elder ministers now trembled, on the verge of tears.
“I dare not further disgrace the court. I beg to retire from service,” they wailed.
Chen Shao could no longer remain silent and stepped forward to speak.
But Zhang Chun spoke first.
“I impeach Gao Lingjun for abusing power, manipulating authority both overtly and covertly, and disrupting military affairs in the northwest…” he declared loudly.
Chen Shao’s steps faltered, and a flicker of satisfaction passed through his mind.
So Chief Editor Zhang is on our side…
Good. With a traditionally neutral figure like him stepping forward, the Emperor’s judgment should tilt in our favor.
“…I also impeach Chen Shao for standing at the side of the court, failing to repay the Emperor’s profound grace, while greedily pursuing merit and recklessly advancing policies that undermine the state’s vital interests…”
What?
Chen Shao stared at Zhang Chun in stunned disbelief.
Whose side is he even on?
Whose side? In this court, everyone ultimately serves their own interests!
Chen Shao’s expression darkened.
To think a wild card would suddenly emerge like this!
What in the world is happening?!
Not only did the expressions of the officials in the hall shift, but even the First Prince’s face paled.
This is over. This time, forget one hour—this session might drag on for two!
Though he couldn’t comprehend the substance of their arguments, the First Prince knew that adding another voice to the fray would only prolong the ordeal.
Despite the eunuchs behind him coughing in a continuous, pointed chorus, the thought of the grueling hours ahead made the prince slump weakly in his chair, tears nearly welling up.
I’m still just a child…
…
Light, hurried footsteps echoed along the corridor, the wind from their movement causing the drizzle to sway.
Seeing the young eunuch enter, Duke Jin’an set down the book in his hands.
“…Victory is hard-won, yet defeat is equally difficult. A victory too easily gained invites failure, while unrest in defeat only deepens it. One should neither grow arrogant in triumph nor lose heart in defeat—why such panic? Punish the guilty as they deserve, but must we abandon eating for fear of choking…”
The young eunuch leaned in closer, whispering in hushed tones.
As the eunuch relayed the events, Duke Jin’an’s smile grew broader.
“Gentlemen ought to tread carefully,” he said slowly, amusement lacing his voice. “On rainy days like these, even the smallest step can trip a man to his death.”
