Lu Fengqiu and the other negotiation officials had not yet left. Upon hearing this, they all looked at Meng Xizhao in shock.
Meng Xizhao remained bowed, unmoving. As long as Emperor Tianshou did not speak, he did not rise.
Emperor Tianshou: “…”
With other unrelated officials still present—and the treaty not being signed until tomorrow—if anything went wrong today, that Xiongnu envoy Jin something-or-other might very well turn back…
Jin Tujue trusted Great Qi completely and did not believe they would suddenly go back on their word. Emperor Tianshou, however, did not share that confidence. The Xiongnu were notoriously shameless; even signed peace treaties could be torn up whenever they pleased!
Emperor Tianshou held his expression for a long while before finally saying, “I am somewhat tired today. This matter shall be discussed tomorrow.”
But Meng Xizhao did not relent. Instead, he bowed even lower. “Your Majesty, this concerns human life and death. After Your Majesty hears the full account, you may rest without concern.”
Emperor Tianshou: “…………”
Meng Xizhao, you’ve grown bold!
By now, Meng Xizhao had been in official service for a year and a half. This was the first time Emperor Tianshou had heard him refuse so firmly—so firmly that it almost carried a tone of pressure.
The Emperor stared at him. Lu Fengqiu and the others held their breath, hands tucked into their sleeves, though what they were thinking remained known only to themselves.
Emperor Tianshou felt irritated. But if he refused to listen, Meng Xizhao would likely not stop—he might even send his father next as an intermediary. Dismissing a prefect was easy; dismissing a vice chancellor was not. That would fall under refusing remonstrance and neglecting governance, something the old officials in court would seize upon to lecture him endlessly.
With a frustrated wave of his hand, Emperor Tianshou said unwillingly, “Very well. Since you claim there is both witness and evidence, bring them in.”
Meng Xizhao immediately brightened. He instructed the eunuchs to bring in the person he had already arranged to wait outside.
Lu Fengqiu observed quietly. When he saw an elderly man dressed like a physician being brought in, he could not help but let out a silent breath of admiration.
It had only been a year, yet he himself had not changed at all, still dutifully serving as the Minister of the Court of Diplomatic Reception. Meanwhile, Meng Xizhao had become someone he could barely look up to.
To be able to bring someone into the palace in advance—and even have them waiting in a side hall—this was a privilege only granted to the Three Dukes and Nine Ministers. Yet Meng Xizhao, merely a prefect, now possessed such authority.
Either Emperor Tianshou favored him greatly, granting him special access, or he was extremely skilled at maneuvering and had found a way to open doors through the eunuchs.
Either way, it made no difference. Both were privileges Lu Fengqiu himself would never have.
Enviable indeed.
While Lu Fengqiu drifted off in open distraction, the man brought in by Meng Xizhao was already trembling as he kowtowed in fear. He was nothing more than a veterinarian. Because of his skill in treating animals, he had been transferred into the Imperial Stables Bureau, where he had worked for decades. He never expected that, at his age, he would still have the chance to see the Son of Heaven.
Overcome with nervousness, he stammered through the formal greetings. Emperor Tianshou cast him a displeased glance but could not be bothered to say anything. His eyes instead fell upon the tray in the man’s hands.
“What is that?” he asked.
It looked like… a blade of wild grass?
Before the veterinarian could answer, Meng Xizhao spoke first. “Reporting to Your Majesty, this is the herb known as ‘Heartbreak Grass.’”
Emperor Tianshou: “…”
Everyone else: “…………”
Emperor Tianshou nearly lost his temper. “Meng Xizhao! How dare you bring such poisonous substance into the palace grounds?!”
With a thud, Meng Xizhao knelt. His voice, however, remained steady and unwavering.
“Your Majesty, this is the physical evidence I spoke of. All six veterinarians of the Imperial Stables Bureau have examined it. The blood-sweating horse died of poisoning. As for the specific toxin, because animals cannot be diagnosed through the traditional methods of observation, listening, inquiry, and pulse-taking, they could not determine it with certainty. The only usable evidence is the Heartbreak Grass hidden in the feed trough.”
“But Your Majesty, the toxicity of Heartbreak Grass lies in its leaves, not its stem. A single plant typically has four to seven leaves. If a person eats one leaf, without treatment, death occurs within seven days. If three leaves are consumed, death occurs within two days. If an entire plant is consumed, death occurs almost immediately, with rapid collapse and demise!”
Emperor Tianshou’s head began to spin. “What exactly are you trying to say?!”
The Crown Prince Consort Meng Xizhao said, “Your Majesty, the Imperial Horse Bureau is often patrolled. The stables housing the blood-sweating horses are, in fact, among the highest priorities of those patrols. I have already inquired into the matter. There are six patrol shifts in total. Every half an hour, a group of men goes to inspect the condition of the horses and to clean the waste in the stables. In such a short span of half an hour, how could three horses all die at the same time? For a human being to die instantly, they would have to consume an entire plant of Heartbreak Grass. And a horse’s body is far larger—how much would they need to ingest for such an immediate and visible effect?”
At this point, Meng Xizhao did not wait for Emperor Tianshou to question him. He immediately reminded him, “Your Majesty is aware that this official has some knowledge regarding poisoning in livestock.”
Emperor Tianshou: “…”
Right. That was true—he had once caused the Xiongnu’s cattle and sheep to stop breeding.
Meng Xizhao, seeing the hesitation on his face, knew he had listened. He continued neither humbly nor arrogantly, “Therefore, when I heard that the blood-sweating horses died from accidentally ingesting Heartbreak Grass, I found it strange. Although Heartbreak Grass is a well-known poison, its toxicity is not actually that extreme. In small amounts, it can even be used as medicine. Your Majesty, please hear Veterinarian Gong’s explanation.”
With that, Meng Xizhao turned to look at Veterinarian Gong, who was already staring in stunned disbelief.
“Veterinarian Gong, where did you study under?”
Veterinarian Gong jolted and quickly replied, “This humble one studied under Jiaogu Valley.”
Jiaogu Valley was one of the four major civilian medical schools. Whatever its actual level, it was at least a legitimate lineage.
Meng Xizhao asked again, “You are a veterinarian. Have you studied human medicine as well?”
Veterinarian Gong replied hurriedly, “This humble one studied human medicine since childhood. When I came of age, the cattle of the Yu family in my hometown fell ill. I attempted to treat them, and only then did I turn to treating livestock.”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “Then let me ask you—what is the difference between treating humans and treating animals in terms of medication?”
This was Veterinarian Gong’s area of expertise. He answered fluently, “For minor illnesses, the prescriptions are the same, but the dosage must be increased. For serious illnesses—”
Meng Xizhao cut him off. “Wait. First tell me—how much do you increase the dosage for minor illnesses?”
Veterinarian Gong said, “It depends on the type of livestock. For sheep, double the human dosage is sufficient. For cattle, it needs five to ten times, depending on whether it is male or female, large or small…”
Emperor Tianshou finally lost patience. “Who is listening to this nonsense! Speak about horses! The blood-sweating horses!”
Veterinarian Gong trembled and immediately dropped to his knees with a thud—this time out of sheer fear.
“Blood—blood-sweating horses are slightly smaller than Xiongnu horses, so the dosage is also slightly lower. About seven times that of a human is sufficient—”
Emperor Tianshou blinked and turned his gaze back to the tray.
One person would need to consume an entire plant to die instantly. A horse required seven times that amount—seven plants. And three horses together—that would be twenty-one plants…
“Heartbreak Grass” did not refer to a single fixed species. Rather, in every dynasty, any highly toxic plant that looked harmless enough to be mistaken for edible greens could be given that name by ordinary people. Thus, its definition varied across time.
In the Great Qi Dynasty, Heartbreak Grass referred to a wild plant with a stem about forty centimeters long, broad and soft leaves, and small flowers blooming at the top. If it grew in abundance, it would be even more beautiful than fields of rapeseed flowers or lavender.
Because of its large leaves and thick stems, a single plant was already conspicuous. If twenty-one plants were gathered together, unless the person was severely nearsighted and colorblind, there was no way they could be overlooked.
Emperor Tianshou’s expression began to change.
He was not particularly intelligent—nor was he truly foolish—but rather lazy, and indifferent to matters that did not concern him. Now that Meng Xizhao had shoved the facts directly in front of him, even if he wanted to ignore them, he could not.
Following the logic step by step, he quickly realized something else: not only was it suspicious that so many plants could be mixed into the fodder unnoticed, but it was even more suspicious that the horses had consumed them all at once. If the Heartbreak Grass had truly been mixed into the feed, the horses would have eaten slowly—so they would have likely shown symptoms before reaching the seventh plant. They would never have calmly finished the entire amount unless someone had removed all other fodder and fed them only Heartbreak Grass.
Emperor Tianshou’s expression flickered repeatedly.
Meng Xizhao continued as if he had not noticed at all, speaking with rising intensity: “Has Your Majesty heard what I have said? If the Vice Minister of the Imperial Horse Bureau, Li Huai, merely replaced high-quality fodder with inferior feed, and by chance one plant was mixed in, that could still be considered accidental. But twenty-odd plants? How could that possibly be coincidence?”
“If this were truly Li Huai’s doing, he would be the person in all the world least willing for this incident to be exposed. The blood-sweating horses were his responsibility—if the horses suffer, he suffers. How could he make such a basic, fatal mistake? Therefore, I boldly conclude: this was not corruption by Li Huai, but rather a deliberate framing!”
The entire hall fell into dead silence.
Grand Tutor Gan had likely never expected the situation to develop this way.
During the negotiations with the Xiongnu envoy, he had attended a couple of sessions. But most of it had been meaningless talk, and Meng Xizhao had not dared mention Li Huai in front of the envoy. Grand Tutor Gan had assumed that once the envoy left, Meng Xizhao would raise the matter then, and he planned to do the same—bringing it up together and ensuring Li Huai was either killed or left half-dead.
But he had not expected that Meng Xizhao would seize this narrow gap after negotiations, when the treaty had not yet been signed and the Xiongnu had not yet left—but were effectively already on their way out.
Now Meng Xizhao stood alone before the Emperor, and he had seized the very flaw in Grand Tutor Gan’s plan.
The Grand Tutor’s actions had been rushed. Although there were oversights, he believed the weakness lay in the lack of actual accounting evidence of Li Huai’s corruption in the Imperial Horse Bureau. What he had not anticipated was that Meng Xizhao would not investigate the ledgers at all—but instead attack the issue from the death of the blood-sweating horses themselves.
Unlike Emperor Tianshou and Meng Xizhao assumed, Grand Tutor Gan had not used actual Heartbreak Grass. Had he done so, he might have noticed the flaw. Because of time constraints, he had instead obtained a lethal poison from his own pharmacy, refined it into concentrated pills, and fed one to each of the three horses.
Killing a few horses was not difficult; there were countless ways. But to pin it on Li Huai, after much consideration, he had chosen to manipulate the fodder—ensuring the horses died quickly and decisively, while still allowing it to appear as an accidental disaster.
After all, even he knew that claiming Li Huai had deliberately killed those horses was something not even Emperor Tianshou—or even his own deaf, blind, and senile deceased mother—would ever believe.
The plan had been exposed. What had been meant to harm another had instead revealed his own malicious intent. Grand Tutor Gan did not yet know that everything had already developed to this point, but even if he did, he would not be overly alarmed.
Because, even if Emperor Tianshou knew the truth, he would not move against him.
As it stood now, in the midst of shifting thoughts, Emperor Tianshou had already understood the inner workings of the matter—but instead of anger toward Grand Tutor Gan, his gaze turned, in a very dangerous way, toward Meng Xizhao.
The hall was too quiet. It felt as though even the air had thinned. Lu Fengqiu did not know the details of the Imperial Horse Bureau incident, but after listening this long, he had already roughly guessed what had happened.
And then his heart began to pound—thump, thump, thump.
…Meng Xizhao, after a year apart, you still have that same boldness! Just say you’re guessing blindly—otherwise if the Emperor truly loses his temper today, you won’t be walking out of here upright!
Unfortunately, his silent prayers did not work. Emperor Tianshou suddenly let out a laugh and even clapped his hands.
“Meng Qing is indeed the prefect I personally selected,” he said leisurely. “Sharp in identifying people, excellent in judging cases. According to you, if this was not Li Huai’s doing, then who was it?”
Even Gong, the veterinarian, could hear the threat in the Emperor’s words. Fortunately, he was already kneeling—otherwise his legs would have given out and he would have collapsed right there in the hall.
In his mind, only four words remained: I am finished…
Lu Fengqiu looked at Meng Xizhao with extreme tension, silently begging him to back down. Unfortunately, that was already the peak of his courage; actually speaking up? Impossible. He still wanted to live.
And perhaps hearing his inner plea—or perhaps simply realizing the situation—after a brief silence, Meng Xizhao spoke with firm conviction:
“Your Majesty, in this minister’s view, this matter was likely done by someone within the Imperial Horse Bureau. Li Huai only arrived at the bureau a few months ago and had recently earned Your Majesty’s praise for his success in horse management. Factional infighting among officials is common; jealousy of talent leading to covert harm is something that has existed since ancient times. I humbly request Your Majesty to allow me to investigate this case and capture the true culprit within the Imperial Horse Bureau, so that Vice Minister Li Huai may be cleared of wrongdoing.”
Seeing that he had finally become sensible, Emperor Tianshou smiled slightly.
“Meng Qing’s intentions are commendable. However, this case has already been handed to the Imperial City Bureau for investigation, so let them handle it. Moreover, Meng Qing is related to Vice Minister Li and should avoid suspicion. It would not be appropriate for you to be too involved.”
Meng Xizhao immediately lowered his head in shame. “Your Majesty is correct. This minister acted hastily.”
Emperor Tianshou chuckled. “No matter. Since Li Huai is largely innocent, let the Imperial City Bureau expedite the investigation. Whether it is sabotage of the blood-sweating horses or embezzlement of silver, they are to investigate everything together. Once the truth is confirmed and Li Huai is found innocent, he may return home to recover, and then resume his duties in the Imperial Horse Bureau.”
As for compensation for wrongful imprisonment and injury…
That had nothing to do with him. He would not be giving any.
Meng Xizhao knew exactly what kind of person the Emperor was. Having just turned the situation around and seeing that things were about to implicate his own father-in-law, the Emperor was displeased.
He knew it—but still, a small spark of anger ignited in his chest. Grinding his teeth inwardly, he still put on a grateful expression.
“Your Majesty is a wise and enlightened ruler. This minister thanks Your Majesty for your grace!”
……
Two days later, Li Huai was finally released.
Even though it had been confirmed that he was innocent, Emperor Tianshou still kept him detained for another two days, making him suffer before he was finally allowed to stagger out of prison.
The Duke’s household was shaken by the ordeal, and everyone remained uneasy. Meng Xizhao sent him many restorative medicines, thinking he would need at least a month or two to recover before returning to duty. Unexpectedly, only three days later—his injuries still not fully healed—Li Huai had already returned to work.
Worried that he might be forcing himself, Meng Xizhao went to visit him. The two sat in Bu Xun Tian, looking over a table full of delicacies. Suddenly, Li Huai asked:
“Cousin, is being an official difficult?”
Meng Xizhao looked at his expression and replied, “Being a good official is difficult.”
“Then are you a good official or a bad one?”
Meng Xizhao thought for a moment, then smiled faintly. “I don’t know either.”
Li Huai fell silent, as though lost in thought. After a moment, he looked up again. The bruises on his face had deepened into a darker purple, making him look even more miserable than before, but he said seriously:
“Cousin, regardless of whether an official is good or bad, you must continue on this path. Don’t be afraid of them. Since you’ve already come this far, you cannot retreat. Worst case… they can just lock me up again.”
Meng Xizhao could not help but laugh and cry at the same time. He was about to respond when he saw Li Huai lower his head again, staring at his wine cup and murmuring:
“Still… I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t be so easily imprisoned again.”
Meng Xizhao looked at him, and in the end, swallowed the words he had been about to say.
＊
After such a huge affair, everything ultimately came to nothing. Even the officials in the Imperial Horse Bureau who had been bought off were thrown into death row.
Grand Tutor Gan spent nearly an hour alone with the Emperor. When he came out, his expression looked normal, as it always did. But shortly after returning home, the unfortunate official in the death cell died—cause of death: self-inflicted head trauma against a wall.
In the palace, Su Rucun listened to Madam Guan’s report and nodded, indicating she understood.
Having lived in the palace for so long, she had never once seen Grand Tutor Gan, because every time he entered the palace, she was immediately required to withdraw. This was both her own decision and the Emperor’s order.
He never allowed any imperial consort to appear before Grand Tutor Gan, supposedly to avoid stirring painful memories.
Su Rucun looked at her increasingly noble reflection in the mirror and thought to herself—how considerate.
After being fully dressed, Su Rucun rose to her feet. It was time for her to go feed the long immortal beast in the Imperial Garden. The other consorts all feared the creature; in truth, she feared it as well. But no matter how afraid she was, she still had to force herself to care for that giant being as thick as a tree.
However, before she even stepped out of the palace gate, Madam Guan hurried back. The two of them exchanged a look, and Su Rucun lowered her head, rubbing her temples.
Seeing this, Madam Guan immediately stepped forward in concern. “Your Majesty, do you have a headache?”
Su Rucun nodded. Madam Guan sighed. “This old ailment has flared up again? Allow this servant to help Your Majesty back inside. I will have Imperial Physician Chen come and take your pulse later.”
With that, the pair returned inside. A nearby palace maid sweeping the floor looked on enviously.
Consort Su and Madam Guan truly had a wonderful relationship.
Meanwhile, after sitting down on the bed, Madam Guan quietly handed a slip of paper to Su Rucun. While one of them continued the pretense of caring attentively, the other tilted her body slightly and quickly read the contents of the note before passing it back.
When Madam Guan burned the paper while trimming the candle wick, no one would ever know what had been written on it.
And just three days after the note was delivered, Meng Xizhao received what he wanted.
Two yellowed sheets of paper, covered with miscellaneous poems favored by literati—obscure works, all written in a distinctly feminine tone.
There was no need to say more. These were clearly Grand Concubine Gan’s own compositions.
…
Emperor Tianshou enjoyed composing and appreciating poetry. Grand Concubine Gan was his true love and also the daughter of Grand Tutor Gan, so she naturally must have been skilled in literary arts. Meng Xizhao could not help but chuckle when he looked at the poems.
Not bad. Quite good. With this level, he would not even need to seek out Sang Fanyu’s help—he could compose something himself.
When it was not true love, Emperor Tianshou only admired poems written by great talents like Sang Fanyu. But when it was true love, even the most mediocre, sentimental scribbles would be carefully treasured.
Still, these two sheets were probably so poorly written that even Emperor Tianshou himself could not bear to look at them, which was why they had been buried at the very bottom. Even if Su Rucun managed to steal them, they would not be noticed in the short term.
So what was needed now was a poem that was one level higher than these.
Meng Xizhao carefully put the old papers away, then walked out as if nothing had happened and went to his subordinate office, the Directorate of Educational Affairs.
The Directorate of Educational Affairs was roughly equivalent to a modern municipal education bureau.
However, the “education bureau” of this era did not only manage scholars and examinations—it also oversaw the compilation of local gazetteers.
Meng Xizhao knocked on the desk and told the official to get lost; he intended to personally inspect the work.
The director did not dare say a word in refusal. After all, Meng Xizhao often acted unpredictably—being targeted today could only be considered bad luck.
After the director left, Meng Xizhao rummaged through the office and finally found the local gazetteers from the years of Tian Shou Two to Tian Shou Four.
He flipped through them roughly, not paying attention to anything else, only focusing on weather records, especially those from the third and fourth years.
After finishing, he returned everything to its place and left casually.
Leaving the director and the others staring blankly after him.
＊
Eastern Palace.
Cui Ye held the two yellowed sheets of paper and silently read their contents.
After a long while, he finally turned his head toward Meng Xizhao, who was deep in thought.
On Meng Xizhao’s desk were, on the left, the poetry collection compiled by Yan Shunying, and on the right, a collection of commentaries on poetry written by a great scholar of the previous dynasty.
He was studying both simultaneously, occasionally glancing ahead. In front of him lay another book—this one titled Records of Court Daily Life, Year Tian Shou Four.
…
Seeing how hard he was working, almost to the point where his hair looked like it might stand on end, Cui Ye could not help but say, “Why not let me write it instead?”
Without even lifting his head, Meng Xizhao refused decisively. “You cannot.”
Cui Ye: “…”
And you, counting tonal patterns on your fingers like that—are you really any better?
Meng Xizhao seemed to realize his rejection had been too abrupt, so he turned his head and added, “Your Highness’s literary talent is naturally excellent. But this piece of writing does not require excellence—it requires elevation. There must not be a single unnecessary word. Every line must strike right at His Majesty’s weak points. If it could make him drop dead on the spot, that would be even better.”
As he spoke, he imagined Emperor Tianshou’s eyes bulging and him collapsing instantly on the spot, and he chuckled happily twice before turning back to his desk and continuing his struggle.
Cui Ye: “…………”
He could not imagine what kind of poem could possibly anger his father to death.
Still, Meng Xizhao was the one who had created a literary persona for Sang Fanyu—a persona that made her famous across the land overnight. People might not know the emperor’s name, but they all knew the tragic and talented poet Sang Fanyu.
Blinking, Cui Ye thought: in the art of sarcasm and subtext, he truly was not as skilled as Meng Xizhao.
Very well. He would continue practicing his calligraphy.