This hunting excursion ended in a disappointing fashion. Even though many tried to lift the mood, they couldn’t salvage the Emperor Tianshou’s spirits. From that point on, he kept a cold face. Those who returned after the farce weren’t skilled hunters to begin with. Seeing the emperor in such a state, they assumed they had offended him and trembled in fear, worried they might be punished.
But the emperor didn’t spare them even a glance. Already afraid, they naturally didn’t dare draw attention to themselves.
However, while most had the sense to keep their distance—one person did not.
The Sixth Prince had failed to hunt any large prey. Though he had seen quite a few animals, he hadn’t hit a single one. As his temper worsened, Grand Tutor Gan sighed and turned to instruct a servant to find the steward of Zhongshan.
A quarter of an hour later, the servant returned—and miraculously, the Sixth Prince had managed to shoot a deer. Delighted, he brought it back, eager to claim a reward from the Emperor Tianshou.
The Crown Prince sat with perfect posture, hardly touching the dishes on the table. For the sake of the occasion, the Emperor Tianshou had ordered Qin Feimang to prepare an entirely meat-based feast, but the Crown Prince was accustomed to a vegetarian diet. Taking a bite now and then was fine, but if he ate nothing but meat, he had no appetite at all.
Seated closest to the emperor, he lowered his gaze to sip his tea. When he looked up again, he saw his dear younger brother pushing eagerly through the crowd—already in his teens, yet still behaving like a child, heedless of propriety.
The Sixth Prince had no idea what had just happened, so when the Emperor Tianshou rebuked him without courtesy, his expression looked especially aggrieved.
If this were inside the palace, with few people around, that look might have stirred a trace of guilt in the emperor and earned him a few kind words. But now, with civil and military officials all present—when even the emperor himself hadn’t been comforted earlier—why should he comfort the Sixth Prince?
Seeing that he still wouldn’t leave, and that the emperor looked ready to lose his temper, the Sixth Prince had no choice but to withdraw reluctantly. Before he left, he seemed to sense something and glanced toward the Crown Prince’s seat. Cui Ye met his gaze without flinching, even raising his teacup and smiling at him.
The Sixth Prince: “…………”
Provocation. That was definitely provocation!
The Crown Prince was provoking him at every moment. Damn it—why was it that whenever he told others, no one believed him?!
…
Meng Xizhao watched him storm back to his seat, sleeves flung in irritation, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
To be fair, the Sixth Prince was quite handsome. No one from the Cui family was unattractive—even the middle-aged Emperor Tianshou could be called refined and scholarly by appearance alone.
The Sixth Prince’s features resembled the emperor’s somewhat, but they were sharper, more striking, more aggressive.
Meng Xizhao had never seen the famed Consort Gan, who was said to have dazzled the capital, so he couldn’t say whether that boldness came from her.
He only felt a trace of regret.
It seemed he wouldn’t be able to make use of the Sixth Prince’s identity after all. What a pity—he had watched quite a few historical dramas, after all. As for how to tamper with an ancient version of paternity testing, he was practically an expert.
If he could prove that the Sixth Prince was not the emperor’s biological son, he wouldn’t need to do anything further. The entire Gan family would be holding hands on their way to the afterlife by tomorrow.
But alas… the risk was too great.
Falsely accusing a consort of infidelity—since the supposed victim was already dead—the emperor, for the sake of face, wouldn’t make it public. It was highly workable and unlikely to backfire. But casting doubt on an imperial heir was no small matter of reputation—it threatened the stability of the realm itself. The Emperor Tianshou would certainly investigate it thoroughly. Those implicated would not be limited to the Gan family; if things went badly, thousands of lives could be dragged into it.
So no matter how tempting it was, Meng Xizhao could only restrain himself, burying the thought deep in his heart—just like those silk stockings and undergarments he had once reluctantly set aside.
＊
In mid-October, on the day of Minor Snow among the twenty-four solar terms, Ying Tian Prefecture saw a rare fall of fine snow.
Though it melted as soon as it touched the ground, not even forming a thin layer of frost, it was still snow.
Meng Xizhao wore a bearskin cloak that could practically be passed down as a family heirloom, with a fox-fur scarf around his neck and a pure copper hand warmer in his arms. Leaning against the window lattice of the Eastern Palace, he watched wax plum blossoms dot the courtyard as light snow drifted down.
Having once traveled to the northeast and seen the vast, silver-clad northern landscapes, Meng Xizhao found this kind of barely-there snowfall rather unimpressive.
Half-lidded, he admired it a while longer before turning around—just as Yu Fulan entered, carrying freshly brewed medicinal soup.
Cui Ye told him to set it aside. Yu Fulan obediently did so, then turned to leave, intending to give them privacy.
But Meng Xizhao failed to catch the hint. Setting down his hand warmer, he removed the scarf and cloak that Cui Ye had insisted he wear. Feeling that he hadn’t spoken with Yu Fulan in a while, he warmly called him back and invited him to sit.
Yu Fulan: “…”
He glanced at the Crown Prince. Seeing his expression was normal, he quietly agreed.
Once, Meng Xizhao had been a colleague in Yu Fulan’s eyes. Now, he was more like a consort.
The entire Yu family was loyal to the Crown Prince. It was impossible for Yu Fulan to view Meng Xizhao with the same mindset as before. Especially after returning to Ying Tian, Meng Xizhao frequently came and went from the Eastern Palace, and under the Crown Prince’s direction, everyone there deferred to him. Even if Yu Fulan hadn’t adjusted before, the Crown Prince had effectively forced him to.
Noticing how cautiously he sat, Meng Xizhao fell silent for a moment, then gently asked, “You’ve been back for some time now. How are things between you and Wen Shiji?”
Yu Fulan blinked. Realizing the topic, he relaxed slightly. “After greeting him a few times, he probably realized I wanted to befriend him. During the Mid-Autumn Festival, he used the excuse of sending holiday gifts to my grandmother to give me a handwritten military treatise. I thanked him. Last month, we ran into each other in the palace. He asked if I wanted to leave the Eastern Palace. If I did, he would help arrange it—have me serve under him, commanding five thousand palace guards.”
Meng Xizhao looked him up and down, unable to help himself. “From what you said before, you hardly had any dealings with him. It was your father who was close to him. But from the way he’s acting, he clearly cares about you quite a bit.”
Yu Fulan: “…”
He grimaced. “Lord Meng, please don’t tease me.”
That Wen Shiji was the Emperor Tianshou’s most loyal hound. Being “cared for” by someone like that—just the thought of it made Yu Fulan’s skin crawl.
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Who’s teasing you? I’m telling the truth. Still, since you clearly don’t like him, you don’t have to be overly courteous with him in the future.”
Yu Fulan’s expression brightened. “So I don’t have to keep trying to befriend him?”
Meng Xizhao gave a noncommittal hum, but didn’t give a firm answer. “Not exactly.”
The excitement on Yu Fulan’s face faded instantly. As he silently processed his disappointment, Meng Xizhao beckoned him closer, wearing the kindly expression of an old master about to pass on a secret manual to a promising disciple.
Yu Fulan: “…………”
He hesitated as he looked at him, but in the end, he still leaned in.
…
After the “secret manual” had been imparted, Yu Fulan left in a daze. The moment he was gone, Meng Xizhao sat in his chair, holding it in for as long as he could—until he finally couldn’t anymore. He burst into laughter, sprang to his feet, and threw himself onto the neatly made high bed, rolling around several times.
Cui Ye: “…”
He had just finished his medicine, the bitterness still lingering in his mouth. Yet seeing this scene, he couldn’t help but smile as well.
Walking over, he blocked Meng Xizhao’s rolling path. Watching him sit up with his hair in disarray, Cui Ye looked utterly helpless. “Is it really that funny?”
The wave of emotion had passed, and Meng Xizhao was no longer quite so unrestrained. Touching the corners of his lips, which still refused to settle, he said with some distress, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. The moment I think about Wen Shiji being played in circles by Yu Fulan, I just can’t control myself.”
Cui Ye: “…”
Isn’t that just schadenfreude?
Shaking his head with a faint smile, he decided not to let him dwell on it. From a hidden compartment by the head of the bed, he took out a secret letter and handed it to Meng Xizhao. “Second Brother, take a look at this.”
Meng Xizhao took the letter, but his eyes kept drifting toward the compartment. “There’s actually a hidden mechanism here? When there aren’t any secret letters, what do you keep inside?”
Cui Ye showed no sign of feeling his privacy had been invaded. Instead, he smiled openly. “Take a guess.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
A bad feeling crept over him. Better not to guess.
Opening the letter, Meng Xizhao found only two lines written on it:
—The princess holds power. A new emperor has been स्थापित. They seek peace.
His eyebrows lifted on their own.
…
The conservative faction of Nanzhao had been extremely stubborn. When Luo Sahua fled there, although she was received with the highest honors, they refused to listen to her on major matters. She could only maneuver using the loyal Nanzhao soldiers she had brought with her.
Now, three months later, she had finally suppressed the conservatives. Yet in the end, she lacked the decisiveness to seize the throne outright. Between crowning herself and installing a puppet emperor, she chose the latter.
The Nanzhao royal family had been thoroughly wiped out by Cui Ye. Aside from Luo Sahua, every remaining member was currently in Ying Tian, enjoying life as captives. That she managed to dig up a relative with even a trace of shared bloodline to enthrone was no small feat—this new emperor was likely related to her only in the most distant sense.
But none of that really mattered—that was Nanzhao’s internal affair. Their territory had been reduced to a narrow strip, surviving in the cracks between stronger powers. If any neighboring country took an interest, their situation would immediately worsen.
Luo Sahua was levelheaded enough. She could even endure the hatred of a fallen nation. After gaining control of Nanzhao, choosing to sue for peace with Qi was entirely within Meng Xizhao’s expectations.
As for whether she intended to accept Qi’s terms and pay to ransom Zhen Anluo back—or to forgo the ransom and instead spend part of the money to ensure Qi wouldn’t wipe them out for the time being—that had nothing to do with Meng Xizhao.
Staring at the slip of paper, he had only one thought:
If Nanzhao had surrendered and sought peace, then the army would no longer need to campaign endlessly.
Which meant—they were coming back.
Pressing his lips together, he smiled faintly. Then, in front of Cui Ye, he held the letter to a candle and burned it. Turning his head, he said, “My elder brother really ought to see this. With you around, what’s the point of him gathering intelligence on officials? It’s practically useless.”
Cui Ye replied, “You can’t put it that way. In the future, I’ll be in the shadows, while your elder brother remains in the open. Each has their own advantages.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
This was the second time Cui Ye had followed his phrasing and referred to his family that way.
Meng Xizhao couldn’t help glancing at him. “We’re not at that stage yet. You’ve gotten used to that form of address a little too quickly.”
Cui Ye sighed. “I don’t know what’s come over me. The words just came out—I couldn’t control myself.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Shameless.
＊
Cui Ye’s intelligence network was indeed fast, though only by a few days. Before long, news of Nanzhao’s coup—the princess controlling the emperor and commanding the tribal chiefs—reached the court.
Instantly, the court filled with disdain. Everyone mocked Nanzhao’s failing fate, saying that for a princess to seize power and “a hen crow at dawn” was a sign of utter hopelessness.
Meng Xizhao stood among the crowd, saying nothing and not even looking at them.
Otherwise, he feared that the moment he looked, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from tearing into them.
If it were this bunch of incompetents in a situation of national collapse, they’d probably already be dead by some riverside. Luo Sahua certainly had her flaws, but all of them put together couldn’t match even one of her.
There was nothing interesting about court today. As Prefect of Ying Tian, he had no place to speak on matters concerning Nanzhao.
That was the drawback of not being part of the Three Departments and Six Ministries—many matters simply left him without a voice.
Xie Yuan, on the other hand, could speak—but he was too cautious. Afraid of saying the wrong thing and drawing the Emperor Tianshou’s displeasure toward himself, the Xie family, or the Crown Prince, he chose silence whenever possible, saving his counsel for private conversations with Chancellor Yan.
As for whether Chancellor Yan listened—that was another matter.
Zhan Buxiu was even more extreme. Both in public and in private, he acted like a mute. While it was true that military officials generally had little say in court, his level of silence was rare.
This, however, reassured Shang Xiguan and Geng Wenjin. They had feared Zhan Buxiu might be like his father—exceptional not only in battle but also in eloquence. Back when his father had been in court, his words had been like a blade, leaving other officials speechless. And since he was a renowned general, no one dared argue with him, afraid he might lose his temper and strike them.
Even after he left for war, one might have thought things would quiet down—but instead, he sent letters back every three days. Either urging the emperor or attacking corrupt officials. Given his high status and the emperor’s reliance on him, many had cursed him behind his back, saying that even off the battlefield, he lingered like a persistent ghost, impossible to shake off.
How could hatred ever come out of nowhere? Zhan Shenyou had been far too sharp, too conspicuous—drawing the collective resentment of corrupt officials, which ultimately led to his death. It was understandable that Zhan Buxiu, as his son, would learn from that lesson. But learning it to this extent—saying nothing at all, acting like a puppet?
Not just others—even the Emperor Tianshou secretly shook his head, finding him utterly dull.
Meng Xizhao idly swung his ankle and rubbed his ear, completely uninterested in what they were discussing. All he wanted was for the session to end so he could leave the city and check on his estate.
Half an hour later, the emperor finally dismissed the court. Xie Yuan had intended to stop him and say a few words, but before he could, a gust of wind seemed to pass—and Meng Xizhao was already gone.
Xie Yuan: “…”
Never mind. Next time.
…………
Winter had fully set in. Meng Xizhao’s carriage was nothing like the palace’s. The Crown Prince had wanted to give him his own, but Meng Xizhao felt he wasn’t quite ready to die yet, so he politely declined.
Shivering inside the carriage, even with a hand warmer in his arms, his legs and arms were still freezing. By the time he finally arrived, the steward—knowing he would come—had already lit charcoal braziers in advance. Following Miss Jinzhu’s instructions, six of them had been set up.
Stepping into the warm room, Meng Xizhao let out a long sigh of relief.
Stretching his limbs, he told Jinzhu to bring the man in.
A moment later, the man arrived, muttering under his breath, clearly unwilling.
In the depths of winter, everyone preferred to stay indoors. Teng Kangning’s constitution was no longer what it once was—he had gone to the Xiongnu, then to Nanzhao, running around constantly and putting out fires. Whatever extra weight he once had had long been worn away on the battlefield. After returning, he had been well fed, supplied with herbs, and even given two promising apprentices, along with two maids who were born deaf and had never been educated. Life had been so comfortable that even if he were told to spend the rest of his life on this estate, he wouldn’t object.
Having grown used to such good days, Teng Kangning had nearly forgotten that he was essentially a rehabilitated prisoner. Being summoned out in the dead of winter left him somewhat displeased. But the moment he entered and saw Meng Xizhao’s faintly smiling expression, it felt as though needles pricked the back of his head, jolting him instantly awake.
This was a ruthless man—wherever he went, emperors ended up dead…
He didn’t dare put on airs anymore. If emperors could be killed without hesitation, what was his own worthless life?
So he obediently bowed. “This commoner greets Lord Meng.”
Seeing that he knew his place, Meng Xizhao softened his expression and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
Once Teng Kangning sat down, Meng Xizhao didn’t waste time. “The prescription you gave me last time—I’ve already put it to use. If I want to trigger it earlier now, do I need to increase the dosage?”
Teng Kangning blinked. “No.”
Meng Xizhao wasn’t angered, only puzzled. “Why?”
Teng Kangning replied, “The dosage I gave you is the safest amount. Increase it even slightly, and it will cause discomfort in the body—the person will notice something is wrong. Decrease it, and while the effect will still accumulate over time, it will take three times as long.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
He fell silent for a moment, then asked, “If they notice discomfort, what happens?”
Teng Kangning shrugged. “Naturally, they’ll go see a physician. After taking their pulse, the physician will detect something off and likely diagnose it as a deficiency of both yin and yang. The formula I created is more intense than a true deficiency, but if they take restorative medicine, it will partially neutralize the effects—delaying the buildup all the same.”
Meng Xizhao understood. In that case, increasing the dosage truly wasn’t an option. The Emperor Tianshou cared deeply about his health, having his pulse checked every three days. If not for Teng Kangning’s skill in concealing the toxin in places undetectable through pulse diagnosis, administering a slow-acting poison like this would have been nearly impossible.
But Meng Xizhao was anxious. The army was returning ahead of schedule. To achieve the best effect, he had to choose the perfect moment—and once the army returned in triumph, that opportunity would never come again.
Lowering his stance, he spoke more gently to Teng Kangning. “In the art of toxins, you are unmatched under heaven. Is there truly no other way to hasten it?”
Teng Kangning stroked his beard and looked at him meaningfully.
He only provided the formula—he didn’t care who Meng Xizhao intended to use it on. But given the many constraints Meng Xizhao had imposed, he couldn’t help but grow curious about the target.
It had to not be taken directly by mouth, but act through another medium. It had to be hidden, impossible for others to diagnose. It was best if it didn’t rely on scent. And it had to affect only one person, without harming others.
Such strict conditions—and such an interesting challenge. Teng Kangning had buried himself in research for half a month, eventually abandoning the direction he had pursued his entire life and developing an entirely new kind of poison.
Not something that killed instantly upon ingestion, but something subtle as spring rain—quietly stirring the latent weaknesses in the body, suppressing the liver and kidneys, causing decline and imbalance.
Put simply, it forced the body to undergo, in a short time, what would normally take decades—culminating in a cerebral hemorrhage.
…
Whatever sinister inspirations Teng Kangning gained from this breakthrough had nothing to do with Meng Xizhao. Right now, with the change in plans, he only wanted to know how to align the timing.
Seeing his urgency, Teng Kangning stopped withholding and said, “There is a way—but it cannot be done as you originally intended. This method must be administered orally.”
Meng Xizhao froze. “If taken orally, will it take effect immediately?”
Teng Kangning calculated for a moment. “I can delay it somewhat—at most, three days.”
Meng Xizhao frowned. “A medicinal decoction?”
Teng Kangning replied, “It can also be made into a pill.”
Meng Xizhao fell into thought. Since there was still time, he had Teng Kangning prepare one immediately and bring it for inspection.
What he received in the end was a large black pill. Holding it—about the size of a glass marble—Meng Xizhao fell completely silent.
Something this big… how was he supposed to get it in?
Unable to come up with a solution himself, he forced Teng Kangning to think of one instead. He asked repeatedly if it could be made smaller, but Teng Kangning simply stroked his beard and insisted it could not be changed. Meng Xizhao glanced at him—then abruptly flipped the table.
In an instant, the composed and steady facade was torn away. With a display of sheer intimidation, he frightened Teng Kangning so badly that the man’s face lost all color, and he hurriedly promised to do his best.
By the fifth day of the eleventh month, Meng Xizhao finally received a pill he was satisfied with. Tucking it away, he entered the palace that very day, though he remained in the Eastern Palace and did not seek out the Emperor Tianshou.
Two days later, on the seventh, the Grand General Who Pacifies the State, Ding Chun, finally returned to Ying Tian with his army. He led a thousand personal guards into the inner city, while the rest camped outside, awaiting orders from the general and the emperor.
The moment Meng Xizhao received the news, he set aside his book. As he changed into official robes in preparation to enter the palace, he instructed Yinliu to carry out the task he had arranged in advance.
Yinliu nodded, put on the fox-fur cloak Meng Xizhao had ordered made for her, and hurried off to find the person.