Huo Lingyun clearly did not know who “he” actually was—otherwise he would have been able to name him the moment he opened his mouth. Yet whether it was Wei Huaigu or Xi Hongxuan, both were already dead.
“In the sixth year of Xiande, only the Hua and Pan factions had the ability to promise Huo Qing a noble title,” Yao Wenyu said, gently stroking the cat’s nape with two fingers. “At that time, Xi Hongxuan had not yet entered court, and Wei Huaigu did not yet have such influence. Why would Your Excellency suspect those two?”
“Noble title,” Xiao Chiye repeated, emphasizing the words heavily. “If you follow that promise upward, you don’t even need to guess—you can already list the candidates. It’s practically an open trail.”
“Based on Peng Fangmiao’s later career path, that promise of a title was likely only a disguise. What was actually used to bribe people must have been something else,” Kong Ling said, still unsettled from the White Scorpion matter. “Although before the eighth year of Xiande, the Minister of Revenue was Qian Jin, from the very first year of Xiande, the one truly controlling the Ministry of Revenue was Wei Huaigu.”
Qian Jin had been dismissed together with Hua Sishen in the Southern Forest Hunting Grounds rebellion case. The “key to the treasury” of Great Zhou never truly fell into Hai Liangyi’s hands, and Wei Huaigu quickly rose to continue contending with him as Minister of Revenue. It was only after Wei Huaigu was imprisoned during the Lianbei military grain case that the corruption of aristocratic factions swallowing the national treasury during the Xiande years—contributing to Zhongbo’s military defeat—was fully exposed.
This was an intricately tangled web. The threads involved not only officials in Dudu, but also local officials across Great Zhou. If “he” had planted agents in Yuxi and Qidong using the same methods, just how many of them were Scorpions now?
“It’s chilling,” Kong Ling said under his breath. “This is practically…”
It is practically hollowing out the entire Great Zhou from within.
“Don’t panic,” Shen Zechuan said calmly, glancing across the gathered scholars. “The more threads there are, the easier it is to expose mistakes. No scheme, no matter how careful, can escape the limits of human capability. Maintaining such an operation takes immense time and manpower—too many pieces in play will eventually create cracks.”
Yuxi and Qidong were different from Zhongbo. Zhongbo had suffered from neglect and weak governance; Yuxi was tightly controlled, and Xue Xiuzhuo and Shen Zechuan had already been actively investigating fiscal corruption and obstructing aristocratic interference. Qidong had Qi Zhuyin—her command structure was stable, and Qi Shiyu assisted her in administration. It was impossible for them to be compromised.
At this moment, however, Shen Zechuan was certain: the one manipulating border military grain supplies was the White Scorpion hidden in Dudu. This Scorpion’s goal was not to force Lu Guangbai into rebellion—it was to kill him.
Xiao Chiye, however, had already locked his gaze onto Huo Lingyun again.
“If the firearms were given to Prince Yi by the Scorpion,” he asked coldly, “then who taught you how to use them?”
Firearms were not swords. Someone from Lianzhou like Huo Lingyun would never have had access to them without training.
Huo Lingyun pressed his lips together. After a long silence, he finally said, “Fang Laoshi.”
This was also why Fang Laoshi agreed to cooperate with him in killing Prince Yi. Huo Lingyun had learned firearms quickly, could operate within Prince Yi’s inner circle, and could obtain information about the treasury while monitoring Prince Yi’s movements.
After Dunzhou was retaken, Yang Qiu and Fang Laoshi grew increasingly uneasy. Once Cizhou reached an agreement with Lianbei and Qidong, Fangzhou and Lianzhou were clearly next targets. Fearing that Prince Yi might surrender under pressure, they decided to strike first, eliminate him, and seize the treasury.
Huo Lingyun had used the treasury as bait to burn Yang Qiu and Fang Laoshi to death. Now the money was in his hands alone—only he knew its whereabouts. That was the leverage he held.
His gaze moved between Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye.
“I can use firearms,” he said. “I can train the Lianbei Iron Cavalry and Cizhou garrison troops.”
Then he looked directly at Xiao Chiye.
“When you march on Duanzhou in the second month, you can place me in the vanguard. I can lead the remaining Lianzhou garrison.”
Fei Sheng’s expression immediately changed. After a pause, he said, “It’s not my place to speak in front of my lord, but this concerns Duanzhou and the Second Master’s safety. I must object. This man’s background is unclear—keeping him near either of you is inappropriate. The Second Master already has capable generals, and there is also Elder Yin in this campaign.”
Fei Sheng was genuinely concerned. Huo Lingyun was too dangerous. Without his interference, Yin Chang would have taken Fangzhou cleanly. Instead, everything had been twisted into confusion, and Yin Chang’s merit was diluted.
Fei Sheng also sensed that Huo Lingyun was ruthless, patient, and capable of striking decisively—almost comparable in temperament to Shen Zechuan himself. Keeping such a person close was too risky.
Xiao Chiye, however, did not respond to Huo Lingyun’s proposal at all.
He did not need Huo Lingyun. He needed firearms—but Duanzhou belonged to him alone.
Shen Zechuan leaned back slightly, his body already sore from sitting too long. The marks on his inner thighs had not yet faded. Between the White Scorpion matter, the grain routes, and Huo Lingyun’s value, everything was tangled and uncertain. Even the logistics for the Duanzhou campaign were already pressing.
“Since Huo-gongzi is willing,” Yao Wenyu said, looking toward Shen Zechuan, “Your Excellency, is the Embroidered Uniform Guard not recruiting recently?”
Understanding flashed in Shen Zechuan’s eyes immediately.
Placing Huo Lingyun within the Embroidered Uniform Guard would keep him restrained by Fei Sheng’s vigilance and under Qiao Tianya’s supervision. It would also prevent him from getting too close, while still making use of his abilities. At the same time, it would serve as a warning to Fei Sheng not to become overconfident.
“Fei Sheng,” Shen Zechuan said, “select from the remaining Lianzhou garrison troops. Take all who meet the recruitment standards—including this Huo-gongzi.”
Fei Sheng quickly understood the implication. His heart sank slightly, but he still replied, “I will obey your orders. However, most of the Lianzhou garrison are Huo Lingyun’s former subordinates—they may not be willing to serve the Embroidered Uniform Guard.”
“Then you are not offering enough,” Xiao Chiye said, slowly adjusting the bone ring on his thumb. His gaze was calm, without any smile. “Once they enter the Embroidered Uniform Guard, they are no longer Lianzhou soldiers. Their old military registrations can be erased.”
He said no more.
Xiao Chiye’s meaning was clear: rewards and discipline were the foundation of control. The men he had once integrated into the Imperial Guards had been far harder to manage than any Lianzhou remnants.
Fei Sheng understood and quickly acknowledged the order.
By the time the meeting ended, night had already fallen.
Qiao Tianya pushed Yao Wenyu back to his courtyard.
The stone path had been carefully cleared of snow, sprinkled with salt to prevent slipping. The newly planted plum blossoms had already withered; their remnants clung to the branches under frost and snow, giving a bleak, wintry impression. The wheels rolled steadily as Qiao Tianya pushed slowly and carefully.
The cat named Hu Nu lay curled on Yao Wenyu’s lap, occasionally stretching and rubbing against his hand. Under the lantern light, Yao Wenyu’s face looked softer than before—healthier, almost gently radiant.
Qiao Tianya said nothing. His gaze drifted to Yao Wenyu’s collar, then away again.
When they reached the courtyard, servants brought in hot water. Yao Wenyu remained inside reading while Qiao Tianya stood outside, resting his hand on his sword and silently watching his qin.
After a long time, the servants all withdrew, closing the door quietly.
Normally, Qiao Tianya would help him bathe and attend to him personally. Yao Wenyu disliked others seeing him in a vulnerable state and allowed only Qiao Tianya to do so.
Tonight, however, something felt different.
From inside, Yao Wenyu finally spoke in a low voice, “…Qiao Songyue.”
Qiao Tianya’s fingers paused above the strings of his qin, but he did not answer.
After a moment, Yao Wenyu said, “It’s time to sleep.”
Qiao Tianya finally entered.
The candlelight was dim. Hu Nu played under the bedding, unaware of the tension in the room.
Qiao Tianya helped Yao Wenyu up and supported him without hesitation. Their movements were close, but restrained at first, as always. Yet Yao Wenyu suddenly tensed.
“I don’t want this,” he said, voice shaking.
Qiao Tianya stopped.
“What don’t you want?” he asked calmly.
Yao Wenyu’s breath turned uneven. He looked at Qiao Tianya as if facing something frightening, struggling to keep control of himself.
“I… don’t want this,” he repeated.
His emotions broke through his restraint. He resisted, trying to push Qiao Tianya away, but his strength was limited. The chair tipped slightly as Qiao Tianya steadied him and firmly held him in place.
“Why are you afraid?” Qiao Tianya said quietly. “This isn’t your fault.”
His voice was low, controlled, but carried a rare intensity.
Yao Wenyu trembled, tears finally spilling out—not from weakness alone, but from the frustration and pain of confronting himself. He clung tightly to what remained of his dignity, even as it fractured.
The room fell into a heavy silence.
After a moment, Qiao Tianya’s expression darkened slightly. He adjusted his hold, forcing Yao Wenyu to face him more directly, but his tone softened just a fraction.
“You don’t have to hide from yourself,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Yao Wenyu shook his head, voice breaking. “I don’t… I don’t need this…”
His resistance faltered under overwhelming emotion. His breath was uneven, his hands gripping Qiao Tianya’s sleeve as if it were the only anchor left.
Qiao Tianya eventually stopped pushing further. He held him firmly, grounding him rather than forcing him onward.
After a long moment, the tension slowly shifted. The room quieted, leaving only their breathing and the soft rustle of fabric.
Yao Wenyu buried his face, trembling, overwhelmed by shame, anger, and confusion. Qiao Tianya stayed with him, unmoving, as if refusing to let him fall apart alone.
“I hate you…” Yao Wenyu whispered brokenly. “Qiao Songyue… I hate you…”
Qiao Tianya did not respond immediately. After a long silence, he leaned closer, voice rough but steady.
“Hate me if you want,” he said quietly. “But don’t deny yourself.”