Hearing this, Zhan Buxiu instinctively clenched his fists.
“What I do is none of your business,” he said.
Meng Xizhao glanced at him, eyes seemingly reading: You’re really boring.
Zhan Buxiu felt his face flush; a surge of anger rose inside him, even stronger than if he had been insulted outright. He didn’t know why, but in Meng Xizhao’s presence, he couldn’t hide his true feelings. A single look from him could make Zhan Buxiu feel intensely embarrassed.
Meng Xizhao had no idea the male lead had such a “special treatment” for him. If he had known, there was no way he would have come today. In his life, Meng Xizhao had one rule: never make a losing deal; the reward must outweigh the cost.
He looked at Zhan Buxiu with mild interest, not disappointment. After all, he had read the original story and knew how resilient Zhan Buxiu could be.
If the Third Prince hadn’t glimpsed Zhan Hui’s appearance and devised that poison plot, Zhan Buxiu wouldn’t have offended the Ministry; if Meng Jiuyu hadn’t stubbornly resisted and died, Zhan Buxiu wouldn’t have fled to Bashu with his sister; if his grandfather hadn’t sacrificed himself for their safety, Zhan Buxiu wouldn’t have been manipulated into rebellion, risking both his life and his sister’s.
Looking back, Zhan Buxiu’s rise was a history written in blood and tears. In the end, even as emperor, atop all others, he would have no family. His subordinates had their own agendas, his harem represented various families, and even his trusted officials, including Cui Ye, were collaborators, not friends.
In the book, Zhan Buxiu ended up a lonely ruler. Empires showed no mercy. The author even left the ending open, though commentators argued his current brilliance wouldn’t last. Eventually, he might become another tyrant like those of the Yue or Qi dynasties. Lucky, and history might call him a great emperor; unlucky, and his era would be lost, remembered only as a stable period amid great division.
Power or peace—what did Zhan Buxiu truly desire? Meng Xizhao didn’t know; he only read the story. But now, he decided: for him, he would choose.
“This life, live peacefully. Don’t chase rebellion or follow your father’s path. Be the Da Qi War God—protect your grandfather, let your sister marry well. Isn’t that a good life? No more fighting and killing; seriously, soldiers have no sense of romance.”
…
It was April, the weather warming. Meng Xizhao fanned himself before saying, “The poison was meant for me, not my elder brother.”
Zhan Buxiu paused.
News of a banquet hall being sealed on Baihua Street spread quickly, reaching the Outer City. He had heard it involved the Meng family, but didn’t know anyone had been poisoned.
In an instant, he connected the dots. “Was it that person?”
Meng Xizhao nodded.
“Who?” Zhan Buxiu asked.
Meng Xizhao gave him a cold glance. “Why does it matter to you?”
Zhan Buxiu stiffened, anger boiling: “They wanted to harm my sister!”
Meng Xizhao tilted his head thoughtfully, as if muttering to himself—but really, he was speaking to Zhan Buxiu: “Ah, no wonder they didn’t target anyone else, only your sister. The reason lies here: your Zhan family and our Meng family are equally hateful in their eyes…”
Zhan Buxiu, destined to become emperor, was no fool. He guessed immediately: “They’re royalty?!”
Who else would harbor such hatred for the dwindling Zhan family? Even the faction of corrupt ministers wouldn’t—they only resented Zhan Shenyu, who had competed for merit. Now, with the Zhan family absent from court, the royals could vent their anger freely.
His fists clicked together.
The royal family hated the Zhan family, and the Zhan family, in turn, hated them, perhaps even wishing to devour them.
Meng Xizhao studied Zhan Buxiu’s expression with genuine admiration. Even now, he stood rigidly, without smashing anything in anger, without howling at the sky. Truly worthy of the nickname “Ninja Turtle.”
Meng Xizhao raised his arm, shook his sleeve, and gently patted Zhan Buxiu’s shoulders.
His eyes were bloodshot as he looked up, yet Meng Xizhao acted as if oblivious to the murderous aura: “So, how many sacks of grain are you moving to avenge yourself?”
Zhan Buxiu: “…”
Meng Xizhao tilted his head. “That hammer you dropped last time—you probably don’t have real weapons at home anyway. So the only deadly tools you could use are the grain sacks in the warehouse. But that’s tricky. Last time you got close to me because someone was setting me up. This time, no one’s helping you. How do you plan to get past me?”
Leaning closer, Meng Xizhao’s eyes brightened with excitement. “Dig a little dog hole near the palace and sneak in?”
Zhan Buxiu’s face flushed scarlet. The suggestion wounded his pride. “I know I’m nothing right now—I don’t need you to remind me!”
Meng Xizhao snorted coldly, stepping back to put some distance between them. “You don’t harm others, and others will come to harm you. Both of us have a good father. Even if you sit idle and do nothing, there will still be people scheming against you. Your grandfather and your young sister aren’t supposed to bear that burden. My elder brother took it for me already. Who do you intend to take it for in the future?”
Zhan Buxiu stared at him intently and suddenly stepped forward.
Meng Xizhao’s heart skipped, his stomach twisting, but he kept his expression steady.
Zhan Buxiu only walked a few steps, with no intention of striking. He lowered his voice, growling in front of Meng Xizhao: “You want me to do what? Pledge loyalty to that dog emperor? Bow and scrape before those who despise me? If I did that, it would be an insult to my grandfather and Ah Hui!”
The Zhan family could lose everything, but they would never break their backbone. That night of the family’s downfall had seen his grandmother die of grief, his mother hang herself, and Zhan Buxiu wanted to leave Ying Tian Prefecture. But his grandfather struck him ten times across the back, then planted the stick on the ground and said, with unshakable force, that they wouldn’t leave. They would stay, to show everyone that Zhan Shenyu was innocent, that the family bore no guilt. As long as they lived, they would remain and prove it.
Under this beastlike gaze, Meng Xizhao lowered his eyes, gradually softening them. “Leave the flattery to me. You just need to remember: the ones you serve are not the emperor, but the countless people struggling to live.”
Zhan Buxiu froze, a mix of surprise and emptiness crossing his face.
Serve… the people?
This was a mindset not changed in a moment. Zhan Buxiu bore too much, carried too much hatred. He was not Meng Xizhao, a modern man with no psychological burden. The sentence struck him like a thunderclap, and then Meng Xizhao let him leave. One bite at a time—this “brainwashing” would continue later.
As he turned to leave, Meng Xizhao momentarily forgot where he had come from. Standing by the willow at the alleyway’s entrance, he paused. A soft but firm voice came from behind.
“You shouldn’t have used me to provoke him.”
Meng Xizhao turned instinctively and saw Zhan Hui standing there. He froze.
Zhan Hui looked at him with a neutral expression. No anger, no disgust, but Meng Xizhao could feel that she didn’t approve of what he had just said.
A clever one…
Meng Xizhao wisely softened his expression and didn’t press further. “If I hadn’t said it, how would he have taken the first step?”
“If he didn’t take that step, how would you get out of your current predicament?”
Zhan Hui bit her lower lip, a flash of defiance in her gaze.
Meng Xizhao continued, “You’re the same age as my sister.”
Zhan Hui raised her eyes. Meng Xizhao smiled at her. “A girl from a family of loyal ministers and generals shouldn’t be living like this.”
Zhan Hui blurted out, “I don’t mind!”
Meng Xizhao: “But as your brother, I can’t not care.”
Zhan Hui froze. Meng Xizhao lowered his head and pulled a small paper-wrapped parcel from his sleeve, still warm. “I was going to bring this back for my Jiaojiao. Take it for you and Zhan Buxiu. People who practice martial arts need good food.”
He finished speaking, then turned and left without looking back to see which direction he was heading.
Half a li later, Meng Xizhao secretly glanced back. The Zhan siblings weren’t following, and he exhaled in relief.
Truthfully… Zhan Hui was a greater pressure than Zhan Buxiu. Probably because in the book, she died young and appeared only a few times. Every appearance was described with the author’s emphasis: intelligent, beautiful, courageous, steadfast—a near-perfect girl. Meng Xizhao didn’t fear a rebellious ringleader, but he feared someone almost without flaws.
She was young and overly protective of her brother, so easily influenced now. Later, when she grew up more, it might not be so simple.
Sighing, Meng Xizhao tenderly touched his sleeve.
Those two meat pies were meant as a snack at the Honglu Temple…
Oh well, maybe later he could find the street vendor again.
At three quarters of the Wu hour, Meng Xizhao returned to the Honglu Temple.
Seeing him so cheerful, Han Daozhen nearly twisted his beard in irritation.
The Honglu Temple closes after the Shen hour—couldn’t you have come a little later?!
Meng Xizhao entered and greeted the colleagues he had met that morning. Everyone exchanged bows politely. When he reached Han Daozhen, he even exclaimed,
“Master Han? You’re up? Looking so spirited—my heavens, you truly are a fortunate man! I just returned with the Buddhist scripture, and you’re already well. What does that show? It shows you have a karmic connection with the Buddha!”
Han Daozhen: “…You brat, I’m not sick at all!”
Meng Xizhao laughed. “Of course you’re not. Who dares say otherwise, I’ll be the first to deal with them. So, Master Han, please accept this scripture.”
Han Daozhen’s face stiffened.
To accept it would compromise his dignity and position. To refuse it would be disrespect to Buddha. The emperor believed in many things, but Buddhism remained foremost. If the refusal were reported, he might be stuck at the Honglu Temple for life…
In the end, Meng Xizhao was still insufferable—who would hand a Buddhist scripture to a colleague who openly followed Daoism? He had no sense of propriety at all!
Closing his eyes and steeling himself, Han Daozhen took the scripture, then stood up, fuming. “I shall return to my meditation. You all take care of yourselves!”
Although he said “you all,” his glare clearly singled out Meng Xizhao. Meng Xizhao raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed.
After Han Daozhen left, some of his colleagues approached Meng Xizhao, trying to curry favor. “Young Master Meng, you should apologize to Master Han. You’re new here. Without his guidance, things might get very difficult for you.”
Meng Xizhao snorted. Apologize? Not a chance.
He was of sufficient standing; not just anyone deserved his flattery. With his usual audacious confidence, he ignored them. Defeated, they returned to their own tasks.
The next day, Meng Xizhao came as usual. Han Daozhen didn’t make things difficult for him, and in fact, didn’t even show up.
After idling away the entire day, Meng Xizhao realized: this was Han Daozhen’s revenge—paralyzing him so he could accomplish nothing.
Meng Xizhao was delighted.
On the third day, he brought food and a storybook, eating and nodding along while others were busy, thoroughly engrossed, making everyone else envious.
On the fourth day, he discussed with his servant which guild leaders were currently the most influential, giving a long lecture that distracted everyone from their work.
On the fifth day, Han Daozhen, furious, decided to teach Meng Xizhao a lesson. But Meng Xizhao didn’t show up. Upon inquiry, he found that Meng Xizhao had gone to meet his guild leaders. Han Daozhen thought he’d finally caught him slipping and rushed to report it to his patron, planning to use it in court.
But his patron, now the Right Chancellor Yan Shunying, a member of the treacherous faction, yelled at him mercilessly:
“You really think Meng Xizhao is just wandering for pleasure? He’s covering for His Majesty! If you want to live, don’t drag me into this!”
Flustered, Han Daozhen wiped the saliva off his face and returned to the Honglu Temple, pondering the outcome of his attempt to stifle Meng Xizhao.
First, he had done the tasks that should have been Meng Xizhao’s. Meng Xizhao, meanwhile, ate snacks and read storybooks.
Second, because he gave Meng Xizhao so much free time, Meng Xizhao could move in and out of the palace at will, making his presence known to the emperor. One day, he might be appointed to a more lucrative position by His Majesty’s favor.
Finally… what kind of mind defect made him think paralyzing a playboy could bring him pain?
No, Meng Xizhao had to work overtime—a lot of overtime!
…
Meng Xizhao had no idea that his good days were about to continue. At this moment, he was on his way to meet the Minister of Justice at the Dali Temple.
Originally, the Minister had intended to see Meng Jiuyu, but upon learning that the second son of the Meng family was now also an official—and a sixth-rank one at that—he quickly changed plans, sending word to summon Meng Xizhao instead.
The reason? Meng Xizhao’s reputation as a playboy was well-known, and Meng Jiuyu’s protective nature was also famous.
The minister wasn’t bringing him in for a pleasant chat. Fearing the wrath of the council, he preferred the easier-to-manage Meng Xizhao.
Meng Xizhao arrived promptly, greeting him with the proper initial courtesy. He appeared youthful and unpretentious, smiling sincerely. Focusing on this, Jiao Liguan thought, “This one’s stable.”
Unbeknownst to him, Meng Xizhao was appraising him: square face, deep frown lines, upright posture—a man under constant pressure, formal and rigid—but calling him in privately showed some flexibility. Meng Xizhao was satisfied: this one was stable.
Seated across from each other, both wore gentle smiles. Jiao Liguan tried to warm the mood: “The last time we met was at your grandfather’s funeral. Many years have passed, yet Young Master Meng has grown into quite the gentleman.”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Master Jiao hasn’t changed a bit; it seems time treats you kindly.”
Jiao Liguan forced a laugh. It was his limit—used to pounding the gavel in court, loosening up was not his strong suit.
“And your elder brother—he’s better now?”
Meng Xizhao sighed and replied slowly, “Yes, he’s better.”
Jiao Liguan: “…”
Better, yet sighing? One might think he had worsened!
His expression stiffened, then he corrected himself. “Since he’s better, why the sigh, Young Master Meng?”
Meng Xizhao lifted his head and smiled wryly. “Yesterday, when the spring imperial exams began, my elder brother, though recovered enough to take a few steps, heard the news and lay back down. Physical ailments are treatable, but emotional wounds… those are harder to heal.”
Jiao Liguan: “…………”
It was a fully convincing reason. He could offer no comfort. Frustrated, he abandoned psychological tactics—he simply wasn’t cut out for this. Normally, such matters would be handled by his deputy, the Dali Temple junior minister Xie You, but Xie You had to recuse himself, leaving him to handle it directly. Unskilled as ever, he could do no better.
Straightening, Jiao Liguan returned to formalities: “We have traced the poisoning incident involving Meng Xiang.”
Meng Xizhao first gave him a look, a bit puzzled at how the man suddenly switched tactics—he had expected a drawn-out exchange, a back-and-forth of dozens of rounds.
Then he blinked and asked, “What leads?”
Jiao Liguan answered, “After our investigation, it turns out the poison wasn’t intended for Meng Xiang, but for you—Young Master Meng Xizhao himself.”
Meng Xizhao considered this for a moment, pressing his lips together. “To be honest, I half-expected it.”
“That day, it was a sudden whim that made me drag my elder brother to that tavern—it’s a place I frequent. My brother hasn’t gone out for a long time, focusing on his studies. So, saying it was intended for me… that makes far more sense.”
Jiao Liguan asked, “Then does Young Master Meng have any suspects in mind?”
Meng Xizhao lifted his head and smiled faintly. “Why don’t you, Master Jiao, just tell me whom you’ve traced it to?”
In these days, there were no recording devices. Jiao Liguan didn’t hesitate and simply said, “All signs point to the palace of Consort Lin Xian.”
Consort Lin Xian was the last surviving senior imperial consort. The emperor, ever devoted to his one true love, had caused trouble with the others he married in his youth; very few remained. Lin Xian kept a low profile and had nothing ostentatious about her, which is why she survived to this day. Once somewhat neglected, in her old age, the emperor occasionally reminisced, realizing the only one he could converse with was Lin Xian. So surprisingly, she was still considered a relatively prominent consort.
Truly, what goes around comes around—thirty years east of the river, thirty years west.
Still, Jiao Liguan couldn’t believe Lin Xian herself had done this.
For one, she would hardly bother targeting a notorious playboy; she had spent her years hidden deep in the palace and likely didn’t even know what Meng Xizhao looked like. Jiao Liguan, and everyone else, knew this. He had only mentioned Lin Xian as a stand-in for the real culprit, whom he dared not name.
As expected, Meng Xizhao understood and fell silent.
Then came Jiao Liguan’s attempt at persuasion: “Young Master Meng, you and I serve in the same court. Your father is a distinguished councilor. You must understand—if this matter were made public, it would likely be raised and lightly set down. If done purely for momentary pride, it might invite retaliation later. I fear, Young Master Meng, that you could not withstand it.”
Is it me who can’t withstand it, or you?
Meng Xizhao kept his head lowered, saying nothing.
Jiao Liguan sighed. “I know youth is headstrong and prideful. Hear me out—where forgiveness is possible, forgive. If you still feel otherwise, you may consult your father, and I expect he would make the same choice I have.”
Meng Xizhao thought: that’s unpredictable. His father, protective to the extreme, might not let anyone go even if he discovered the Third Prince was behind this. But he would not let his father know.
He lifted his head, serious, meeting Jiao Liguan’s gaze. “Master Jiao, are you suggesting I deceive the emperor?”
Jiao Liguan: “……”
What?
Meng Xizhao suddenly swept his sleeve and stood, exclaiming, “Master Jiao, how can you say such a thing? His Majesty has praised you for uprightness! Do you not live up to the emperor’s expectations?”
Jiao Liguan: “…………”
Do you even have a sense of decency!
“Young Master Meng, I am only thinking for your sake!”
And for the entire Dali Temple! The Third Prince is ruthless; if you provoke him, what happens to us without your father protecting you? Especially with subordinates like Xie You, who has no standing—if the Third Prince targets you, they wouldn’t even be able to live in peace!
Meng Xizhao, however, stared at him with unwavering resolve: “A minister should fear no power! You claim to act for me, Master Jiao. Well, I shall think of you as well. If you don’t report this, choosing instead to smooth it over, have you considered why such a deadly poison exists in Consort Lin Xian’s palace? Such a terrifying thing appears in the inner court—are you not worried it might someday harm His Majesty?”
Jiao Liguan was taken aback.
He had been so focused on protecting the Dali Temple, he hadn’t considered this angle.
Indeed… the poison wasn’t Lin Xian’s doing; it was the Third Prince. Once he left the palace, wouldn’t the poison go with him? Even if not, a father-spoiled prince would never use it against his own father.
But Jiao Liguan couldn’t see this. He only felt cornered.
Any unusual herbs appearing in the palace warranted a full investigation by the Imperial City Office. Meng Xizhao was right—never fear one in ten thousand, only worry about the one in ten thousand. If forbidden substances were later found in the palace, there would be no escaping accountability.
“B-But if we report it…”
Meng Xizhao suddenly raised his voice: “Master Jiao!”
Jiao Liguan turned in surprise.
Meng Xizhao stepped forward, visibly impassioned, looking him squarely in the eyes: “The emperor’s safety is above all! You and I serve His Majesty and the empire. If you choose to cover it up, how can you justify your rank, your authority, and the ambitions you once vowed to fulfill?”
Jiao Liguan: Forgive me!
Once, he too had been an ambitious youth, striving to serve the court. Yet, with treacherous ministers everywhere, he had grown timid in the Dali Temple. The ancestral maxim of the Jiao family—better to burn the land than bend the bamboo—once guided him. Somewhere along the way, he had become the very type of self-serving official he despised.
Jiao Liguan was left bitterly frustrated.
The emperor judged him upright, and indeed he was, but even the upright meet trials. Meng Xizhao had lightly prodded his conscience, and suddenly, all his pent-up emotions surged.
But emotions alone did not erase reason.
He still shook his head. “No… crossing the Third Prince is just…”
Meng Xizhao suddenly asked, puzzled: “Why would you cross the Third Prince?”
Jiao Liguan felt like he was about to spit blood.
“You’re asking why I’d offend the Third Prince? At this point, you’re pretending to be naive?!”
Yet Meng Xizhao truly played the innocent. “How does this involve the Third Prince? Weren’t we talking about Consort Lin Xian?”
Jiao Liguan: “……”
He glared at Meng Xizhao, feeling like he was being toyed with, while the younger man muttered to himself:
“Impossible. The Third Prince is intelligent, martial, inheriting many of His Majesty’s virtues—how could he poison me? If it were him, the emperor would be implicated, the Third Prince would be punished, and no courtier would dare approach him. But if Consort Lin Xian did it, perhaps out of jealousy over a talented woman I introduced to His Majesty, it’s just a momentary lapse. In the end, she’s an elder in the palace; even if the emperor is angry, he won’t harm her. And with the Third Prince, her devoted son, to comfort her, she’ll surely recover soon.”
After speaking, Meng Xizhao lifted his head and smiled faintly at Jiao Liguan.
Jiao Liguan was dumbfounded.
At first glance, it seemed absurd. But on further thought… it actually made sense.
The difficulty of this case lay in the overwhelming evidence—anyone, even inexperienced in investigations, could solve it in a day. Originally, Jiao Liguan had planned not to report it, claiming the culprit was unknown or blaming a servant. But that left too many holes—any investigation could easily unravel it, and the Dali Temple would be at risk trying to bury the matter.
The Third Prince likely knew this. He had remained silent in the palace, probably assuming the Dali Temple would report truthfully, putting him in jeopardy.
By attributing the incident to Consort Lin Xian, the Third Prince’s reaction aside, she would inevitably accept responsibility. Courtly consort disputes resulting in injury or death weren’t uncommon. As long as the emperor’s favorites weren’t affected, he might treat it theatrically. She suffers a bit, but her son remains safe. Having survived to this age, she surely knows her son’s well-being ensures her future security.
The Third Prince survives the crisis, Lin Xian takes the blame for her son, the Dali Temple smoothly closes the case, and Emperor Tianshou’s heart rejoices.
And Meng Xizhao? What does he gain? Clearly, by showing virtue and forgiving, he gives the Third Prince a favor. Perhaps the Third Prince will not target him in the future.
Seeing this, Jiao Liguan stood and patted Meng Xizhao on the shoulder. “Such resolve in youth—you have the mind to go far.”
Meng Xizhao smiled quietly, saying nothing.
Jiao Liguan assumed Meng Xizhao was acting out of ambition to spare the real culprit, yet the younger man’s actual intention was entirely different.
Never forget—this is Daqi, and its emperor is Tianshou.
…
Jiao Liguan completed the case file and proceeded to the palace audience. He reported the pre-reviewed findings to Emperor Tianshou in a precise, formal manner. The emperor neither praised nor scolded him, simply waved his hand lazily: “Noted. You may leave.”
“…That’s anticlimactic.”
Jiao Liguan was baffled, but at least he wasn’t reprimanded. He left, while Qin Feimang quietly lowered his head, minimizing his presence.
As expected, Emperor Tianshou’s expression grew darker and darker.
Except for a handful of insiders, no one knew the emperor abhorred the word “poison.”
Many years ago, he had attempted the same: he tried to poison the empress. By chance, the intended meal went to a favored concubine. She didn’t die immediately, but her health deteriorated, and she passed soon after.
This case was eerily similar.
Both involved poison… and the wrong target.
Had no consorts been involved, he might not have been so unsettled. But hearing Consort Lin Xian’s name reminded him of the empress who married him alongside her, and of his ill-fated true love.
It was something he had done himself. Emperor Tianshou naturally could not reveal this—he swallowed his suffering silently—but that did not mean he felt at peace. He harbored resentment, as he was a selfish man. Previously, he blamed the empress who didn’t consume the poison; now he blamed Lin Xian for dredging up his past memories.
That evening, sounds of smashing and a woman crying echoed from Consort Lin Xian’s palace. The Third Prince rushed over, only to be slapped twice by Lin Xian.
…
The palace had been unusually tumultuous recently. Lin Xian was reportedly under house arrest. The Third Prince’s entreaties were ignored; he faced demotion, his fief reduced from wealthy Shandong to chaotic Jiangxi, and his title changed from Lu to Ning.
Meng Xizhao’s newly arrived personal attendant was a gossip enthusiast, able to recount every palace rumor vividly.
Sitting in the carriage, Meng Xizhao listened like hearing a storyteller. When they reached the gates of Honglu Temple, he stopped him: “Enough. Save the rest for back at the residence.”
The attendant, Qingfu, was overjoyed. “No problem, sir! I’ll do my best!”
At the residence, there were plenty of capable women. Qingfu had always felt insecure, but now he had found a skill where he excelled, unlike the women. He vowed to leverage his gossip knowledge to become Meng Xizhao’s closest aide.
…
Meng Xizhao had Qingfu and the coachmen wait nearby, while he leisurely entered Honglu Temple alone.
Unlike before, this time, the moment Han Daozhen saw him, he strode toward him in anger.
“From today onward, you are responsible for all affairs of the Yue’s Inn!”
The Yue Kingdom was one of Daqi’s neighboring states, located to the northwest. Although it shared the name “Yue,” it had little connection with the Yue Kingdom along the Silk Road. After the Xiongnu withdrew from the Central Plains, one branch returned to the steppes to reestablish the Xiongnu, while another, unwilling to return to the empty grasslands, attempted to invade West Asia—battling everywhere but conquering nothing.
…Well, most of their people stayed behind. King Zuo Xian even married a princess of Yue at the time and staged a coup, successfully taking the throne. In other words, the Yue Kingdom of the present was essentially another Xiongnu state in name only.
Yet there were differences from the “real” Xiongnu. The Yue were highly ethnically mixed; they no longer herded but, like the Central Plains, developed agriculture, culture, and the arts. The royal family, over generations, had lost all bloodthirstiness, spending their days composing poems, painting, and cultivating a refined lifestyle. From royals to commoners, everyone fancied themselves cultured.
The key point: they all admired cultured people.
Now Meng Xizhao, who had only just mastered writing steadily, could only go: “…”