Something capable of startling Meng Xizhao this much could hardly be minor.
Qingfu had just reported that the residence of the Duke of Wu had encountered trouble: a group of guards had stormed in and forcibly taken the second young master, Li Huai, and he was now confined in the Imperial City Prison. Apparently, something had gone wrong at the Grand Stable, where Li Huai was stationed.
The Imperial City Prison held only those who had offended princes or nobles. Its very existence represented immense privilege, backed by the emperor himself. There was no law there—entry meant immediate punishment, brutal beatings, and near-mortal torment, followed only then by interrogation.
For Li Huai to end up there, survival without injury was unlikely.
Meng Xizhao’s mind went blank. He didn’t know what had happened, but the timing was far too sensitive. Even without knowing the details, he sensed this was no ordinary mischief by Li Huai.
He quickly calmed himself, excused himself to Jin Tuzhe without mentioning the personal nature of the incident, citing an emergency at the local authorities. Jin Tuzhe, puzzled but sensing the urgency, did not ask further and allowed him to leave.
Night was falling, and the curfew was near. Meng Xizhao did not rush to the Duke of Wu’s residence but returned to the Administration Office, just as his father’s men had gone out looking for him.
The office was brightly lit, everyone wearing expressions of worry and panic—confirming Meng Xizhao’s suspicion that Li Huai’s situation was far more serious than mere troublemaking.
After Meng Jiuyu recounted the events in full, Meng Xizhao was dumbfounded.
Two hours prior, a guard at the Grand Stable noticed in terror that of the three prized sweat-blood horses, two had suddenly died, and the sole survivor was barely breathing, frothing at the mouth—clearly near death.
Caring for the sweat-blood horses was the most critical task of the Grand Stable. They were not only the emperor’s beloved, but also a symbol of peaceful relations between Great Qi and the Xiongnu. Death or illness of even one horse was grave enough—but two dying simultaneously, and in a manner apparent even to the untrained eye, clearly indicated poisoning!
At the mention of poisoning, Meng Xizhao’s expression changed dramatically.
Meng Jiuyu continued, unaware, “Among the leftover fodder, fragments of ‘heartbreak grass’ were discovered. Perhaps those below did not inspect carefully, causing this disaster. The emperor was furious and ordered the palace guards to investigate. The investigation revealed that the fodder reserved for the sweat-blood horses had been swapped for the lowest-quality feed. His Majesty believes Li Huai, audacious and self-serving, replaced it for personal gain…”
Meng Xiang stood nearby, face grave, silent.
He did not speak because even he was unsure whether Li Huai was responsible. Though Li Huai had performed decently over the past year, his history was well known—unreliable, prone to mischief, occasionally aggressive, and brazen. He had committed almost every indulgent and reckless act a spoiled scion could imagine.
But… would Li Huai really stoop to petty greed?
Meng Xisang felt his head spin. Logically, Li Huai, as a son of the Duke of Wu, shouldn’t covet trifling amounts of money. Yet the fodder for the sweat-blood horses was no small sum. If Li Huai had indeed taken it for personal gain, it could have caused today’s deadly calamity—
In that case, he would be doomed!
Even the Zhang household, normally clueless about court matters, could see that once this became known, Li Huai would not survive.
First, the emperor’s mood had been sour these past few days. The anniversary of his beloved’s death had just passed, and now, in the blink of an eye, his cherished horses were dead—two at once. Li Huai, promoted to the position overseeing the horses, bore responsibility regardless of intent. And the cause of death was linked to him.
Legally, he would be executed. On top of that, the timing was the worst possible: the Xiongnu envoys had just arrived.
Imagine if Jin Tuzhe learned that Great Qi had received their prized sweat-blood horses and, instead of caring for them, two were poisoned. Would Jin Tuzhe be pleased? Perhaps he would erupt in anger—or he might laugh mockingly. Either way, the emperor would face a dilemma. The first would force difficult negotiations; the latter, even worse, would give Jin Tuzhe grounds to pressure the emperor.
Therefore, even to placate Jin Tuzhe’s wrath, Li Huai had to die.
The Duke of Wu’s household was already in chaos. The aging Duke sat anxiously at home, while the heir, upon hearing the news, was stricken with fear, scrambling to gather money to persuade the officials to show leniency. The heir’s wife was inconsolable, crying streams of tears, accompanied by Lady Meng and Li Pingzheng.
After Meng Jiuyu finished speaking, he noticed Meng Xizhao remained silent and his expression was unusual. Sensing this, Meng Jiuyu asked, “Second son, do you have a plan?”
Meng Xizhao’s face darkened slowly. “Father, the emperor decides cases fast—two hours, and he’s already rendered judgment.”
Meng Xisang froze. “You mean… someone manipulated things behind the scenes, deliberately framing Cousin Huai?”
Meng Jiuyu’s expression shifted repeatedly, finally settling on agitation. “A vile scheme! Yet given the emperor’s temperament, even if he knew someone else was behind it, he would still blame Li Huai. As long as the Xiongnu envoy is present, the emperor won’t seek the true culprit—he’d rather appoint a scapegoat to pacify the envoy.”
His tone sharpened. “Whoever orchestrated this likely calculated exactly that. They’re probably briefing the emperor now, urging him to execute Li Huai quickly to close the matter.”
No matter what, Li Huai was his nephew. Even knowing that intervening might not save him and could draw trouble upon himself, Meng Xizhao resolved to go to the palace.
“I’m going too,” he said immediately.
Seeing this, Meng Xisang naturally wanted to follow. “I—”
Meng Xizhao cut him off. “Elder brother, stay here. The emperor hasn’t been seeing you favorably lately. If our whole family rushes in, it will look like favoritism rather than justice. Wait here for news.”
Meng Xisang: “…………”
Recognizing the logic, he sulked back into his seat.
After the Qiu Suming incident, Meng Xisang had escaped punishment, but in subsequent court sessions, whenever he spoke, the emperor would scold him.
The reason? His memorials had touched upon points the emperor disliked, even if Meng Xisang didn’t realize it. Between him and Jiang Fang, the two who had written the controversial memorials, the emperor’s bias had unconsciously singled him out.
Meng Xisang did not see fault in his writing. If there was a problem, it lay with the emperor, who could not tolerate unflattering truth.
…
It was late, yet they had to act. Meng Jiuyu worried, “I hope the emperor isn’t asleep. If we wake him and haven’t yet spoken, we’ll already be at a disadvantage.”
Yet waiting risked Li Huai’s life.
Sitting in the carriage, Meng Xizhao remained calm. “It’s still early. Don’t worry, Father. The emperor is surely awake.”
Meng Jiuyu: “……”
He wondered how Meng Xizhao knew this, but given his position as Imperial Tutor to the Crown Prince, his familiarity with palace routines was natural.
Meng Jiuyu focused on worrying about his nephew, unaware that Meng Xizhao’s expression remained tense.
Elsewhere, Gan Taishi, seeing Meng Jiuyu and Meng Xizhao head to the palace, was delighted. To him, this situation was unbreakable. The arrival of the Xiongnu envoys had transformed a near-certain disaster into absolute advantage.
He had considered waiting a few days before acting, fearing overreach might backfire. But now, the timing was perfect—too good to pass up.
Though rushed, the plan was simple: Li Huai would die; the Mengs would intervene and risk the emperor’s wrath; even if they weren’t entirely stopped, they would be severely weakened. It would also embarrass the Crown Prince, showing the court that a prince unable to protect his subordinates was unworthy of support.
Yet… to be safe, Gan Taishi decided he would go to the palace as well. The Mengs were skilled orators, capable of influencing outcomes; though there was no room to turn things around, his presence would serve as insurance.
Rarely for him, Gan Taishi stayed up, preparing his sedan chair for the palace.
Already delayed, and traveling by chair instead of carriage, he arrived after Meng Jiuyu and Meng Xizhao had reached the emperor.
Meng Jiuyu bowed. The emperor, having stayed up late recently and skipping visits from the concubines, was playing with his jeweled ball on the dragon bed. Though undisturbed, the thought of their purpose enraged him.
The Tian Shou Emperor didn’t want to hear pleasantries; he spoke with blazing anger: “Do not plead for Li Huai! I entrusted him with the sweat-blood horses, yet he withheld their fodder, causing the death of all three. Not executing him would fail to vent my rage!”
Meng Jiuyu had anticipated the emperor’s stance and did not lose heart. He continued to bow his head, reasoning gently. He wasn’t pleading for Li Huai out of personal favor, but to stress the gravity of the matter. The facts needed thorough verification; if Li Huai truly was guilty, punishment could follow.
Meng Xizhao listened as his father spoke, sentence after sentence. His father’s eloquence was remarkable—though the argument lacked complete weight, his words carried a semblance of logic that made the listener feel he was right.
The Tian Shou Emperor was firm in matters of military and patronage, but for routine governance and minor affairs, he usually heeded his ministers. Otherwise, the court would not harbor so many powerful yet treacherous officials.
Seeing the emperor’s attitude soften slightly, perhaps allowing Li Huai another day of life, Gan Taishi entered the hall.
Only he could enter without prior notice.
His gentle voice came from behind, and Meng Xizhao felt a chill run through him.
“Minister Meng, your words are misplaced. The Xiongnu envoys only met Your Majesty today. They come to trade with Great Qi and will be frequent visitors. If they inquire about the sweat-blood horses, how should Your Majesty respond? Should you tell them the horses are dead, yet the official responsible faces no consequences?”
With a flick of his sleeve, Gan Taishi strode before Meng Jiuyu, a face radiating righteous authority. To the emperor, he said, “Do not heed this man’s slander. Li Huai is Minister Meng’s nephew. These words only seek to buy time so that he might use his position to save his nephew’s life. Such ambition shows no regard for the crisis facing Great Qi.”
Turning to Meng Jiuyu, he continued, “Tell me, Minister Meng: is your nephew more important, or the safety of Great Qi? For one nephew, would you dare offend the Xiongnu?”
Meng Jiuyu met his gaze but could only lower his head and clasp his hands. “Your Majesty, I meant no such thing.”
Gan Taishi stroked his beard, regarding Meng Jiuyu as one would a wayward relative. In a casual tone, he delivered words that cut like a blade: “Ordinarily eloquent, yet today you cannot defend yourself. It shows you understand the principles but still seek to mislead Your Majesty, letting lives perish—this is unkind; knowing Li Huai’s guilt yet shielding him—this is unjust; putting personal gain above Your Majesty—this is disloyal. People like you, unkind, unjust, and disloyal, deserve punishment.”
“Yes, his crime warrants execution,” he added with serene finality.
Gan Taishi’s casual stroke of his beard froze mid-motion.
Why did he hear an echo?
The Tian Shou Emperor’s expression darkened and brightened unpredictably, clearly absorbing Gan Taishi’s words. Meng Jiuyu had pleaded for his nephew, and the emperor had initially found it reasonable. Yet Gan Taishi’s intervention sowed doubt.
While the storm brewed in his mind, a calm, deliberate voice interrupted from the side—Meng Xizhao. Everyone in the hall froze.
Even Meng Jiuyu glanced toward him.
Seeing all eyes on him, Meng Xizhao raised his head and repeated deliberately, “Gan Taishi speaks truly. If my father acted so, his actions would indeed merit punishment!”
He then turned to Meng Jiuyu with apparent indignation: “Father, first we serve as ministers, then as sons. If Li Huai erred, he should be executed. Not only executed—he deserves the heaviest penalties! Quartering, waist-cutting—no, those are insufficient! Lingchi!”
Meng Jiuyu: “……”
Gan Taishi: “……”
He instinctively suspected Meng Xizhao was up to mischief, yet could not fathom his intent.
Meng Xizhao stepped forward, placing himself nearest the emperor, and bowed deeply: “Your Majesty, I did not come to plead for Li Huai. I came to inform you—this matter is not simply about Li Huai embezzling and causing the horses’ deaths. The relationships involved are complex. One misstep, and we could fall into the Xiongnu’s trap!”
The Tian Shou Emperor: “……”
Though alert at night, his mind was slower than in daylight. He caught none of Meng Xizhao’s meaning, but feigned composure, staring blankly.
Taking this as encouragement, Meng Xizhao pressed on: “Your Majesty may recall that last year I was sent to the Xiongnu and befriended a certain individual—now the Xiongnu envoy, Jin Tuzhe. What Your Majesty does not know: Jin Tuzhe is ruthless. As a mixed-blood, he fought his way through Xiongnu nobility. His biological father was Qi, and his adoptive father is the Xiongnu’s most powerful Left Wise King. Jin Tuzhe did not achieve his position by luck—he is cunning and opportunistic. Outwardly a reasonable gentleman, but among the savage Xiongnu, he is supreme. If he learns the sweat-blood horses are dead, no matter our compensation, he will demand blood from us.”
After speaking, Meng Xizhao stood calmly, betraying no thought.
Only he knew Jin Tuzhe well; others could not judge the truth of his words. The emperor paused, asking, “You mean…”
Meng Xizhao replied, “I mean, Your Majesty, forget Li Huai for now. As for the sweat-blood horses, we must not let the Xiongnu know—certainly not at this time. They came to buy grain. Although we have written proof, that relies on both nations adhering to protocol. If Jin Tuzhe discovers the truth, we hold a huge lever, and who can guarantee he won’t immediately exploit it—demanding lower grain prices or even seizing a shipment?”
Gan Taishi: “…………”
He quickly interrupted Meng Xizhao. “Nonsense! The sweat-blood horses died solely because of Li Huai. The Xiongnu are struggling to survive; how could they be so foolish? They would never wish to provoke Great Qi!”
Meng Xizhao immediately turned to him. “The Xiongnu’s hardship comes from the collapse of their cattle and sheep economy, causing shortages of food and clothing. On top of that, the Jurchens constantly harass them, which is why they resolved to attack the Jurchens. If they learn of this matter, they may no longer want our grain at all—and might even turn against us directly. Grand Tutor Gan, you understand the importance of the sweat-blood horses better than I do. This issue could escalate or remain minor, depending on the Xiongnu’s intentions. If they decide to act, they could even launch a campaign over the horses. Do you recall why they attacked Qi over twenty years ago? Because a Qi merchant deliberately undercut prices and refused to buy their horses at a fair rate. That crisis was only resolved last year.”
How was it resolved?
Of course, by Meng Xizhao himself.
When the Xiongnu lacked resources, they fixated on the Central Plains like vultures. Any excuse—real or imagined—was enough for them to wage war. Everyone knew this but could do nothing, always seeking to avoid conflict.
Previously, conflict was avoided through marriage alliances. Now, even if they wanted a princess, the Xiongnu would likely refuse.
The Tian Shou Emperor was far stronger than his father; at least he did not fear battle. But with horse prices already low, there was no reason to attack the Xiongnu. Especially now, with them disordered and impoverished, a campaign would either waste resources or yield no gain. Endless grasslands bring only hardship. Far better to focus on Dali.
Meng Xizhao had described Jin Tuzhe as “ruthless,” and the emperor believed him; all Xiongnu had such traits. The emperor was well aware of their internal strife. If Qi caused trouble, the Xiongnu might exploit the opportunity to benefit themselves.
As the emperor pondered, Meng Xizhao dropped another bombshell, tipping the scales entirely.
“Your Majesty, the sweat-blood horses were poisoned. The Xiongnu are already overwhelmed with their cattle and sheep. We must not let them worry over the horses as well.”
He deliberately stressed the word “poisoned.” Others might not understand, but the emperor, sharing a small secret with Meng Xizhao, shivered with realization. Of course—the entire horse disaster had been engineered by Great Qi!
If the Xiongnu drew the wrong conclusion—that the horses’ deaths hinted at poisoned cattle and failing herds—they would not need to prepare for war against the Jurchens. Furious, they would march south at once.
The emperor nodded firmly. “Correct. Meng Qing is right; the Xiongnu must not be informed of this matter.”
Gan Taishi was stunned. “You’ll listen to him just like that?”
He hurriedly said, “Your Majesty—”
The emperor stopped him and only asked Meng Xizhao: “But if the Xiongnu envoy asks, what should I say?”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Simple. Your Majesty can say that the environment of the Capital Prefecture is unsuitable for the sweat-blood horses. They often fell ill, so you established a special estate in Chengdu Prefecture for them to recuperate. Jin Tuzhe has a mission and cannot personally inspect this estate. After he leaves, we can gradually explain that the horses, unable to adapt to the Central Plains, unfortunately died.”
Such symbolic creatures cannot simply die without notice; protocol demanded the other sovereign be informed.
Gan Taishi realized that by concealing the horses’ death, Li Huai’s fate shifted—from inevitable execution to certain punishment. A descendant of the Wu Guogong family, Li Huai could have survived, though not unscathed. Exile, beatings, or demotion to commoner were possible.
Yet Gan Taishi was not satisfied. Too lenient. He wanted Li Huai dead and the Ming and Wu households divided, not left with hope for unity.
He immediately protested. “How can we deceive the Xiongnu envoy? If discovered, how could Minister Meng be held accountable?!”
Meng Jiuyu was displeased. “How could it be discovered, Grand Tutor? Did I mishear? Do you suggest that Great Qi must tell the Xiongnu, inviting their complaint? Or do you imagine the envoy, like you, will magnanimously forgive us?”
Gan Taishi: “……”
He could not answer, yet persisted: “Deception is unacceptable! Your Majesty is the True Dragon Son of Heaven and would not stoop to such petty methods!”
The emperor: “……”
In truth, he thought Meng Xizhao’s plan was quite clever.
Night deepened, and no resolution emerged. The emperor, weary, finally decided to follow Meng Xizhao’s advice. After all, he planned to sell grain to the Xiongnu. Last year’s iron ore from them had already been spent, and now, planning a campaign against Dali, he needed steel weapons.
Once again, Meng Xizhao had his way. Gan Taishi’s face turned pale with anger, but the emperor looked worse. Though alert earlier, he now felt exhausted beyond anyone else.
Eager to return and manage his strategy, he left without concern for his father-in-law’s expression.
When they left, Grand Tutor Gan glared darkly at Meng Xizhao and Meng Jiuyu but said nothing. The father and son of the Meng family let him go first obediently; only after his figure disappeared did they step out quietly.
Once outside the palace, the two immediately turned to each other.
Meng Xizhao said, “Father, I’ll go to the Imperial City Bureau.”
Meng Jiuyu frowned. “At this hour? Better to wait until tomorrow.”
Meng Xizhao shook his head. “The emperor’s orders have changed, and the Bureau isn’t aware yet. If we wait until tomorrow, Li Huai will suffer another night. Besides, I want to ask him directly whether he really pocketed the money for the forage.”
Meng Jiuyu said, “Then I’ll go with you. In front of Official Wan, at least your father has some face.”
Meng Xizhao blinked. “No need. In front of Official Wan, my face carries more weight than yours.”
Meng Jiuyu: “…………”
Truly, you aren’t afraid of getting your tongue twisted by the wind.
But Meng Xizhao spoke the truth. Wan Huaixin had received a young lord from the Duke’s household that evening—a familiar face, one who had previously sent silver his way. He had hesitated, inquiring carefully into the young lord’s reasons for being there, and once satisfied, his hesitation vanished.
This was exactly the kind of boldness that took an old fox by surprise: messing with the sweat-blood horses? Madness!
Even if a Crown Prince wished to see him, he would refuse. Some silver could be accepted, some not. This was the ultimate lesson taught by Minister Qin.
By the time Meng Xizhao arrived, the Crown Prince was still seated at the Imperial City Bureau. Upon seeing his nephew, the prince hurried over in distress. Meng Xizhao calmed him with a few words, then instructed a young eunuch, “Please inform Official Wan that Meng Xizhao requests an audience.”
The eunuch nodded and went to deliver the message. The Crown Prince looked at his young cousin with anguish. “Er Lang’s matter is extraordinary. Official Wan usually sees no one tonight. You came all this way late—it may be in vain. Perhaps you should return and wait until morning—”
Before he could finish, the eunuch hurried back and bowed, saying, “Lord of the Meng household, please proceed.”
The Crown Prince: “…………”
Meng Xizhao nodded to the prince and followed the eunuch inside. The prince stared after him in a daze. Had Meng Xizhao really become this formidable? Even the eunuchs dared not offend him?
Meng Xizhao’s answer: not really. Just this one eunuch.
Two slaps in the past, the fall of Qiu Suming… tonight, no one outside knew it was the Duke’s household son who had suffered misfortune. Wan Huaixin dared ignore the Crown Prince but not Meng Xizhao. After all, the previous opponent of Meng Xizhao had passed away barely a week ago.
Wan Huaixin treated Meng Xizhao with cautious respect. Meng Xizhao had no intention of formalities; he only wanted to see Li Huai. Once Wan Huaixin realized this, and that Meng Xizhao would neither give gifts nor linger, his hesitation vanished. Having just come from the palace, Meng Xizhao knew the emperor’s anger toward Li Huai had cooled.
Wan Huaixin could only marvel. Even someone seemingly doomed could be pulled back—Meng Xizhao was indeed the greatest sieve of the realm.
Following his subordinates, Meng Xizhao navigated the complex corridors of the Imperial City Bureau, finally arriving at one of the cells where Li Huai was held.
Even he could not escape a beating at the Bureau. The only comfort was that it had not been too severe, allowing Li Huai to lie on the floor and weep quietly.
Such a pitiful scene reminded him of the days when he had arrogantly sent adversaries into this very place. Now, he experienced the same treatment.
As Li Huai mourned, he heard footsteps and struggled to sit up. Seeing Meng Xizhao outside, he froze, then burst into uncontrollable sobs, crawling toward him. “Cousin! They beat me—it hurts so much! I didn’t pocket the silver! I swear! I don’t know how the sweat-blood horses died! Cousin, please save me!”