Yingtian Prefecture.
Meng Xizhao’s capture caused a considerable stir. Emperor Tianshou had initially planned to announce it at the regular court session to gather everyone’s ideas, but such matters couldn’t exactly be made public—Nanzhao was essentially a nest of spies, with informants everywhere. Even Qin Feimang was appalled; it seemed the emperor had left Meng Xizhao with no chance of survival whatsoever.
And to think, he once admired Meng Xizhao so much!
Tianshou was heartless, but Qin Feimang still had a shred of conscience. Considering Meng Xizhao had always been generous with his money and had gifted him a painting before, Qin Feimang persuaded the emperor. He reminded Tianshou that too many knew of Meng Xizhao’s capture; if Nanzhao found out, they might execute him. In that case, using Meng Xizhao’s capture to inspire the troops would be ruined.
Tianshou thought: dead people inspire even better.
Yet Qin Feimang’s reasoning was sound. He also worried that Meng Jiuyu—the overprotective father—would make a scene in Chongzheng Hall if things were handled recklessly.
Fine, fine. A private meeting it is.
So after the regular court session, several key officials were summoned to Kunyu Hall.
By now, it was already May. Emperor Tianshou, who disliked the heat, had the hall prepared with ice basins. Not full ice mountains yet—the weather wasn’t quite that extreme.
Those summoned were familiar with the emperor’s extravagant habits, so they weren’t surprised. But when they saw the Crown Prince present, some revealed brief looks of astonishment.
Of course, all were seasoned and quickly resumed composed expressions.
Present were Meng Jiuyu, two prime ministers, Grand Tutor Gan, General Shang, Chief Secretary Geng, and Qiu Sumin, the Sansi envoy who had just returned from Shandong for his father-in-law’s birthday.
Perfect—all the scheming ministers were here.
Emperor Tianshou asked Meng Jiuyu to report the situation, then inquired about their thoughts.
They exchanged glances, instinctively looking at Grand Tutor Gan. Being the eldest and highest-ranking, it was customary for him to speak first. But Gan considered the matter: the war with Nanzhao didn’t concern him; the previous years of financial burden hadn’t touched his wealth. The current issue was whether to rescue Meng Xizhao. To Gan, not rescuing meant Meng Xizhao was doomed; rescuing meant a 60–70% chance of doom, with only a 30–40% chance of return. And given the scale of the operation, the emperor would hold Meng Xizhao personally responsible, ensuring no future favoritism.
Well, this was a guaranteed lose-lose scenario.
So Gan decided: why speak? Better to remain low-profile and leave the battlefield to others.
He turned to Meng Jiuyu, nodding. “Minister Meng, don’t be anxious. Trust that the others will come up with a plan.”
Meng Jiuyu: “…………”
Well, not adding trouble is already good enough.
Seeing Gan avoid taking a stance, others shifted their eyes, and someone else stood up.
This time it was Chief Secretary Geng Wenjin.
He strode forward, impassioned, and declared to Emperor Tianshou: “Your Majesty, the Nanzhao people have enormous audacity! Prefect Meng is a pillar of our great Qi, a capable general of Your Majesty. They abducted him, raided his office at night, and slaughtered the clerks—trampling the honor of our Qi! I propose immediate mobilization: dispatch fifty thousand troops to aid General Ding and seize the Gan and Shao provinces at once!”
Meng Jiuyu glared at him and cleared his throat forcefully.
Geng noticed and quickly added, “And of course, rescue Prefect Meng.”
Meng Jiuyu: “……”
Not a single reliable person in the lot!
Geng Wenjin, like the others, cared little for the fate of Meng’s son. He wanted to fight; the reasoning behind sending more troops was obvious. A large-scale military action required immense logistics, with funds and supplies running into millions. Qi governed military officials through civil oversight, yet operationally, civil and military functions were separate. With the emperor’s approval, Geng could arrange everything unilaterally, bypassing the three departments entirely.
This meant significant opportunities for corruption—the embezzlement would be invisible to others.
Meng Jiuyu seethed inwardly but could not contradict him; at least Geng supported rescuing his son, unlike the idle Grand Tutor Gan.
Geng wanted to fight, but another voice opposed.
This wasn’t a civil official but the brave General Shang Xiguan.
He stood, shaking his head vigorously, speaking not to the emperor but to Chief Secretary Geng: “This is unwise, Geng. Shaozhou has been renamed and is now the Nanzhao capital. Sending fifty thousand troops cannot breach such a fortress.”
Seeing Geng about to speak, Shang quickly interrupted: “Do you intend to send even more? Geng, war isn’t conducted like this! Are you planning to dispatch local troops from Yingtian Prefecture or recall forces from the northwest? Nanzhao is important, but other borders remain crucial. If Nanzhao is engaged, other states may exploit the weakness. Geng, do you wish to become a permanent traitor in Qi’s history?”
Geng Wenjin: “…………”
The fatso.
Among all civil and military officials, none were more infuriating.
As a general, he had never won a single battle in his life, yet luck seemed to follow him. He had climbed the ranks by sheer accident—first becoming a general, then a grand general, all through fortuitous chance. Now that he had reached the pinnacle of his office, there was no more “luck” to be had, so he resorted to persuading the emperor not to go to war. Do you love peace so much? Or are you afraid that if too many battles are fought, the emperor will send you—the useless one—out to lead the troops?
…
Rivals by profession indeed make for bitter enemies.
Soon, the two began arguing—one insisting on fighting, the other against it, even dragging Meng Xizhao into the debate as an excuse. He claimed that if war broke out, Meng Xizhao’s survival chances would drop dramatically. The Sansi envoy stood silently by Grand Tutor Gan, not even knowing why he had come today.
Whether to attack Nanzhao had nothing to do with him. Sure, he still oversaw salt and iron, and military supplies had to pass through him, but Emperor Tianshou treated warfare as a matter of utmost importance, leaving no room for him to manipulate things behind the scenes. He could still embezzle, but the sums involved were trivial—too small to bother with now that he had grown wealthy.
The Right Prime Minister Yan Shunying observed the quarrel too, but he tried to remain fair.
After all, whether or not war occurred had no bearing on his personal gain. As the head civil official, he had little interaction with generals, and the allocation of funds and supplies did not reach his pockets.
He considered carefully: the issue wasn’t whether to fight, but how to fight.
The main army had been stationed in Jizhou, not returning to the capital. That meant the emperor intended for them to continue the advance, so whether or not Meng Xizhao’s situation existed, the campaign wouldn’t stop. Rescuing Meng Xizhao wasn’t as complicated as everyone made it out to be. It didn’t require deploying a full army—sending a dozen or a few dozen highly skilled operatives to locate him in Nanzhao and retrieve him quietly, without alerting the enemy, would suffice.
However, there was a problem.
Only the palace maintained operatives like that, and only the Hall Guards directly under the emperor could train them.
In other words, this plan required Emperor Tianshou’s approval.
Yet he hadn’t even mentioned it. Instead, he sat silently, watching Geng Wenjin and Shang Xiguan quarrel, signaling that he had no intention of dispatching anyone. He merely intended to use the situation for his own purposes—still hoping to manipulate Meng Xizhao’s capture to influence troop morale.
Yan Shunying felt a chill in his heart. This was going to be a tricky situation.
Supporting the emperor would alienate Meng Jiuyu; supporting Meng Jiuyu would anger the emperor. Yan glanced at Meng Jiuyu and noticed the man’s face was flushed with anger. Yet for some reason, he didn’t erupt as usual. From the start, he had restrained himself, refraining from immediately joining the brawl and taking down both opponents.
Yan Shunying thought: “…the old hen has changed her ways today?”
Believing Meng Jiuyu had changed was as impossible as believing a rooster could lay eggs.
He narrowed his eyes. Something was off. Like Grand Tutor Gan, he stayed silent, hands tucked behind him.
Meanwhile, the quarrel between Chief Secretary Geng and General Shang escalated until truth came spilling out. Geng accused Shang of cowardice—his refusal to fight stemmed from the fact that he was the only remaining general capable of leading an army, and he did not want to leave Yingtian Prefecture.
Shang naturally denied it, face red, neck swollen, countering with tales of his past merits, detailing his injuries, and the doctors summoned to the office. In short, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to go—it was that his body wouldn’t allow it.
Geng Wenjin: “…………”
Shameless!
Geng intended to use his scholarly demeanor to irritate Shang Xiguan to death, but suddenly someone interjected:
“General Shang’s body is not fully recovered; indeed, he is unfit to lead troops to Nanzhao. But reinforcements still require a commander. Father, your son is willing to serve as commander, leading fifty thousand soldiers to Jizhou and personally campaigning against Nanzhao.”
The room went silent, everyone dumbfounded. Meng Jiuyu froze as well, eyes wide—his usual expressions never so exaggerated.
Yan Shunying looked at him, puzzled, sensing something truly strange.
Emperor Tianshou remained silent, observing Cui Ye.
What he wanted was a surge of morale among the troops. Hearing that Prefect Meng had been captured would anger them, raising spirits considerably. Yet as Meng Jiuyu had said, Meng Xizhao’s reputation in the army was poor due to his father’s influence. The Crown Prince, however, was different. He was the heir, an unseen “hidden dragon,” and to the ignorant public, the next emperor. Moreover, he had already visited the Xiongnu, earning great prestige among the Qi people. Now arriving in Nanzhao again, people would recall his past success, boosting confidence tenfold.
In any scenario, the plan had clear benefits.
But Emperor Tianshou did not want to approve it.
He feared that if Cui Ye succeeded in Nanzhao, he would gain real achievements. Cui Ye’s previous campaign had ended in disastrous failure, and as his son, success would threaten the emperor’s control.
Tianshou grimaced, saying nothing.
The courtiers below had various thoughts. Even Geng Wenjin and Shang Xiguan ceased arguing, baffled by the sudden turn: the discussion of whether to fight had now become the Crown Prince leading the troops to Nanzhao.
Just then, another voice rose:
“Your Majesty, I believe this is unwise.”
It was the Minister Situ. Yan Shunying, hearing him speak, looked at him as if witnessing someone who had lost their voice for ten years miraculously recovered.
Situ continued, voice firm: “Your Majesty, Nanzhao is unlike the Xiongnu. They are ruthless. Any Qi soldiers they encounter will be attacked immediately. Should the Crown Prince go there, his life could be at risk.”
No sooner had he spoken than Meng Jiuyu sprang up, voice heavy with grief:
“Exactly! I am grateful for the Crown Prince’s good intentions, but how can my son’s life compare to the safety of His Highness? The southern Jizhou region is filled with deep mountains and marshes, miasma rampant. The Crown Prince is already delicate and ill-suited to lead an army!”
Minister Yan: “…………”
He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but he felt as though the two of them had planned this together, deliberately isolating him—leaving him out of the loop.
Being an outsider, Yan could see things clearly and his instincts were sharp. Grand Tutor Gan, however, lacked this ability. Especially after the Crown Prince spoke, Gan was so engrossed in the moment that he couldn’t fathom this might have been a trap they’d set.
Yan’s mind raced: leading troops personally? Fine, when Emperor Tianshou himself had gone to the front, he was surrounded by the Xiongnu. They had to send sixty thousand men to rescue him. But if the Crown Prince were surrounded, the emperor probably wouldn’t send that many to save him.
Moreover, Meng Jiuyu had a valid point: the Crown Prince’s body was weak. Even in Yingtian Prefecture, he fell ill easily. In a place where every breath could be deadly, exposure to fever or miasma might well kill him.
Grand Tutor Gan was overjoyed.
He hadn’t been so anxious before; he had his own plans, intending to act carefully. When Emperor Tianshou suddenly made Cui Ye Crown Prince, Gan had been stunned. He begged the emperor to rescind the decree, even invoking his deceased daughter, tears streaming down his face. The emperor had claimed that palace assassins had nearly killed the Sixth Prince, and installing Cui Ye was meant to shield the Sixth Prince.
Gan had always thought that protecting the prince was just an excuse, and irritating Empress Xie was the real goal.
Regardless, as long as Cui Ye didn’t succeed as Crown Prince, Gan’s objective was met. That night, the emperor had given him a tentative promise: once the Sixth Prince, Cui Zhun, grew up, Cui Ye would be deposed in favor of the Sixth Prince.
Now, the Sixth Prince was grown enough to discuss marriage, yet the emperor made no mention of changing the heir. He left Cui Ye’s and Cui Zhun’s marriages untouched, so both remained unmarried. Gan had subtly brought this up twice, only to be blocked each time.
Gan realized then: the emperor had changed his mind.
He had been young then and thought of Consort Gan, so he had agreed enthusiastically. Now, older and with the Sixth Prince no longer a charming child, he felt a crisis looming.
He dared not pressure the emperor—his deceased daughter could be useful once, but not indefinitely. Any overuse could backfire. Just as he was contemplating how to elevate the Sixth Prince, an opportunity fell right into his hands.
If the Crown Prince died, replacing him with the Sixth Prince would be natural. Who else, besides the Sixth Prince, could take the position?
With that thought, Gan suppressed his excitement, abandoning pretense of modesty, and righteously rebuked Minister Situ and Meng Jiuyu:
“How can you speak so? Even if the Crown Prince leads the army, he will be in the command tent, not exposed to the dangers you describe. Your Majesty, in my view, this is a valuable opportunity for His Highness to gain experience. Furthermore, if the Crown Prince leads from the front, how could our Qi soldiers not feel inspired?”
Emperor Tianshou blinked.
Two trusted ministers opposed the plan, fearing the Crown Prince’s death. One highly trusted father-in-law supported it, arguing that morale would soar.
The emperor weighed the arguments carefully, and slowly, the scale tipped.
“Very well. Let the Crown Prince prepare to personally campaign against Nanzhao.”
At Ningren Mansion, dawn broke later than at Yingtian Prefecture.
While the sky over Yingtian was already tinged with pale light, Ningren Mansion remained pitch black—though not for long. Soon, the horizon would glow a deep dawn-blue.
At this hour, everyone slept soundly, including Meng Xizhao and his companions in their newly assigned residence. Thanks to Meng Xizhao’s silver tongue, they had finally escaped prison-like conditions and could sleep in proper beds.
Xie Yuan and the others were too exhausted even to ask questions; they collapsed immediately. Meng Xizhao, after a moment of thought, also fell asleep sitting upright.
…
He was awkwardly sprawled on the bed in a painfully contorted position, probably destined for a stiff neck by morning.
The house Princess Luosahua had provided was small—just three rooms. Meng Xizhao occupied one, Xie Yuan another, while Manager Wang and Jia Renliang shared the third. Surrounded on all sides by Nanzhao residents, the newcomers drew curious glances when they first arrived.
Those looks weren’t mere curiosity—they were habitual, as if new neighbors had moved in countless times before.
Princess Luosahua’s seamless arrangements revealed experience; she clearly wasn’t new to offering such preferential treatment. Qi country had its clever people—before Meng Xizhao, others must have attempted self-preservation with equal cunning.
As for the fate of those who came before, Meng Xizhao remained skeptical.
Yes, skill allows a person to receive preferential treatment almost anywhere, but one must also consider the larger environment. This was Nanzhao, where most locals harbored deep resentment toward Qi nationals. Winning them over completely and securing unconditional acceptance was impossible.
Both sides had their agendas. Princess Luosahua, however, was highly shrewd. Meng Xizhao observed her once and already knew: she was ruthless. When useful, she would smile warmly; when not, she would have you chopped up and fed to dogs.
Her treatment of Nanzhao people was severe; her treatment of Qi nationals even harsher. To maintain her favor, one had to prove advantages tenfold, a hundredfold stronger than any local. Fail to do so—and sorry, your life was forfeit.
…
Even Meng Xizhao couldn’t always anticipate her thoughts. He could only stay temporarily—one or two months safely, three months at most. Any longer, and he risked death.
With such worries weighing on him, he drifted into sleep. Even his nightmares took Luosahua’s form. Meanwhile, outside, someone had already risen for the day.
The young woman Meng Xizhao had seen at the gates of the Nanzhao palace the previous day stirred before dawn. She rose from the firewood shed, quietly approached the main house, glanced at the sleeping Nanzhao matron inside, and then, lifting her skirts, quickly slipped outside.
She headed in the direction of the city’s outskirts, veering further with each step. Despite the darkness and the fact that she was still on Nanzhao streets, she showed no fear, only occasionally glancing back to see if anyone was following her.
After walking for quite a while, she arrived at a stinking location and, with practiced ease, found a corner to squat in and hide.
It was a mass grave. With the heat of Ningren Mansion already enough to make one sweat, the grave teemed with maggots and flies. But the worst was the stench.
Yet the woman squatted there as if oblivious to it all, eyes lowered, waiting tensely.
About a quarter of an hour passed. The sky had darkened into deep blue when the sound of rolling wheels echoed from afar. Several Nanzhao palace attendants pushed a cart, conversing as they went. Covering their noses in disgust, they dumped the corpses from the cart into the heap, then left.
The woman waited a while longer to ensure they wouldn’t return. Then she stood, pursing her lips, and surveyed the newly added corpses, still obscured by the dim light.
As though her feet were nailed to the ground, she remained motionless for a long time before finally stepping forward.
Expressionless, she lifted the straw mats covering the bodies one by one, examining each face. When she found none of the person she sought, her shoulders trembled slightly, slumping.
Wiping away the involuntary tears, she hurried back to the small courtyard, washed her hands and face clean, then went to the kitchen. She rubbed the skirts with fragrant herbs to mask the stench of death. When she heard someone inside stir, she carried a full basin of glutinous rice out, pretending she had been busy for a long time.
She spoke a few words in the Ailao language to the matron, who responded briefly, after which she tidied her things and went back out to run her stall.
By the time Meng Xizhao rose and stepped outside, half of the goods at her stall were already sold.
He hadn’t had a chance to eat the day before and was determined to make up for it today.
Although his own belongings had been confiscated, Princess Luosahua had given him some gold and silver the previous day—Nanzhao currency, which Meng Xizhao initially didn’t understand the value of. After checking prices, he realized the princess had been incredibly generous; the amount she gave him was equivalent to five hundred taels of silver in Qi.
Meng Xizhao bought two bright green cakes from the female vendor and stood there eating. Being still a lowly newcomer, he had no right to dine in the western palace.
He hadn’t interacted with her beyond pointing yesterday, but listening to her speak with others in fluent Ailao, he hadn’t suspected that she was actually from Qi.
When a palace guard approached to buy cakes, he suddenly heard her speak flawless Yayan—standard courtly speech—and turned, astonished.
In those times, information traveled slowly. Even if people were taught Yayan in other regions, local accents remained. Just as with Jia Renliang—people could tell he was from Longxing Prefecture the moment he spoke.
Meng Xizhao was shocked because this vendor spoke the most standard Yayan, the exact form used in Yingtian Prefecture.
But how could someone from Yingtian end up in Nanzhao? Even the most ruthless of Nanzhao would not venture to kidnap people from the imperial capital of Qi.
He watched her continue chatting casually with the guard. Her familiarity with him suggested she was no ordinary vendor. Though the guard and she switched between Yayan and Ailao, Meng Xizhao couldn’t understand the conversation. It seemed like small talk—who hadn’t finished their shift, when the next replacement would come, and so on.
Before the guard left, two more attendants came to buy cakes. The vendor engaged them easily as well. From the expressions of the attendants, it was clear they were completely won over by her charm.
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
For some reason, he felt a strong sense of déjà vu.
Even so, he still didn’t consider her remarkable; many people were adept at such things for survival.
He cared more about her accent. After finishing the cakes, he didn’t leave. Once the other customers had gone and the area was clear, he approached her and smiled:
“Miss, are you from Qi?”
She paused, flour still on her hands, and shook her head: “I used to be. Not anymore.”
Meng Xizhao blinked, making no remark about her changed nationality, just keeping the conversation light: “I thought so. Your accent betrayed you—you’ve lived in Yingtian before?”
The woman pressed her lips together, smiled slightly, and continued kneading dough.
Seeing her uninterested in him left him slightly frustrated, but he had a question to ask, so he tried anyway:
“Miss, how long have you lived here? Have you heard of a woman from Jiangzhou, surname Su?”
He reasoned: he was already here; might as well ask. Lady Su, described by Prefect Wan as nearly one of the top five beauties, could have been given to a high-ranking official—or she might still be somewhere in Ningren Mansion. If they crossed paths, it would be quite a coincidence.
He never expected his casual inquiry to elicit such a strong reaction.
The vendor’s head snapped up, flour-dusted hands frozen. Her eyes bore into him fiercely; Meng Xizhao half expected her to strike him with her rolling pin.
“Never heard of her. Why do you care?”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Fellow countryman, let me give you a piece of advice.
Next time you lie, maybe tone down the ‘ready-to-stab’ look in your eyes…