After sending Cui Ye off, Meng Xi Zhao did not remain idle either. He had originally planned to call in sick today and imitate Grand Tutor Gan’s usual tactic, but after returning to his quarters and organizing his things, he fully armed himself and went out.
Arriving at the Yingtian Prefecture Office, everyone who saw him hurriedly and respectfully bowed. Meng Xi Zhao merely responded with an indifferent “mm,” treating it as acknowledgment.
When he reached the Household Registration Office, he repeated his usual method and cleared the officials out, under the pretense that he was going to inspect their work progress. He did this sort of thing from time to time, and everyone had long since become accustomed to it. In the past they would have been frightened, but now they simply went about their business—and some even felt a little relieved that they were the ones selected.
After all, whenever Meng Xi Zhao came like this, he would stay for a long time, effectively giving the person in charge here half a day off.
But today was different. He stayed until nightfall, turning that half-day leave into an entire day.
Outsiders did not know what he was doing and even began to suspect he had fallen asleep inside. Only when night came and the candlelight was seen inside did they dismiss the thought.
Inside the glow of the candlelight, Meng Xi Zhao sat down with his head lowered, methodically reviewing old household registration records.
Official records for bureaucrats were managed directly by the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of Personnel. However, the records of their families still passed through the Yingtian Prefecture Office’s procedures. As long as an official had once served here, there would be no gaps in the records.
Unless the entire family had died out, and the person had never taken a wife or had children.
As he flipped through the pages, Meng Xi Zhao muttered inwardly:
In the second year of Emperor Tianshou’s reign, Consort Gan entered the palace.
At the end of the third year, after her confinement period ended, she began to covet the position of Empress. It was also around this time that Emperor Tianshou first raised the idea of deposing the Empress.
This conflict continued into the spring of the fourth year. The literary world was shaken, and official opposition reached its peak. Only then did Emperor Tianshou back down.
In the autumn of the fourth year, Consort Gan passed away. But that was not the end of chaos—it was the beginning of a new wave. The “half-wife system” was born from Emperor Tianshou’s grief and resentment. While tormenting officials, he drowned himself in indulgence. And then, in a dream, he saw that damned “ball.”
Meng Xi Zhao had always believed that Emperor Tianshou’s obsession with that object was not only because it was absurd, but because it was the first “good thing” he encountered after losing Consort Gan. So he clung to it like driftwood on a river, refusing to let go, even transferring part of his longing for Consort Gan onto it.
Soon after, Zhan Shenyou was recalled from the northern battlefield against the Xiongnu and ordered to attack Nanzhao. Zhan Shenyou found the command absurd beyond belief, but as imperial decree, he had no choice but to obey.
While Zhan Shenyou led troops on campaign, the people in Yingtian could not possibly wait obediently for his return. Emperor Tianshou continued tormenting officials, leaving everyone mentally and physically exhausted. Eventually, all those who had originally opposed the deposition of the Empress were forced out.
Once the capable were gone, others would naturally take their place. Grand Tutor Gan had originally been restrained by many officials at court. At that time, he was not yet Grand Tutor; Emperor Tianshou had merely granted him the title of Palace Academician of the Hall of Scholarly Enlightenment.
Only after the previous Grand Tutor resigned in disappointment did he step into the position. The same applied to the current Left and Right Chancellors—they were all reshuffled in that year of great change.
Meng Xi Zhao pulled out the household records of those who had once led the opposition and focused on their family situations.
Anyone who had been forced into the “half-wife system” by Emperor Tianshou must have been someone he hated deeply. Those were his key targets.
There were not many such people—only five in total. Following these five individuals, Meng Xi Zhao examined their current situations.
Good. All dead.
Meng Xi Zhao: “……”
If he did not know Emperor Tianshou had no habit of secretly assassinating officials, he would have thought these deaths were his doing.
High-ranking officials were usually elderly to begin with, and ten more years had passed. So their passing was not particularly surprising. It was only the fact that they all died around the same time that felt somewhat unfortunate.
But “unfortunate” aside, what Meng Xi Zhao actually needed was precisely someone already dead.
He laid out the five families’ records, resting his head on one hand as his fingers lightly tapped his cheek. In the end, he pushed aside four of them and decided on one.
The former Grand Tutor Gan had succeeded—no, the predecessor of Grand Tutor Gan: Grand Tutor Yang.
The records here were naturally sparse, but Meng Xi Zhao had no intention of repeatedly dissecting this man as he had with Consort Gan. Whether Grand Tutor Yang had been loyal or corrupt in life did not matter. He only needed the use of his name as a starting point.
Looking at the Yang family genealogy, Meng Xi Zhao’s thoughts drifted again.
After Grand Tutor Yang’s departure, Emperor Tianshou had almost eagerly promoted Grand Tutor Gan, trusting him completely, confiding in him without restraint, and obeying his words without question. It was as if all his regret over Consort Gan had been transferred onto this kindly-looking old relative by marriage. Overnight, an era of unchecked power for Grand Tutor Gan began, and from then on, no one could surpass him.
Civil officials knew how to bide their time and avoid confrontation.
But Zhan Shenyou, who had lived freely his entire life, did not. He had never lost a battle in his life, so he did not understand what defeat meant—or that not everyone wished for the Great Qi to prosper. Some people simply wished for themselves to prosper.
The Grand General of Cavalry, first-rank official, the leader and backbone of all military generals—he had no fear of Grand Tutor Gan’s overwhelming authority. If there was anyone in this world who stood as an obstacle to him, it would undoubtedly be Zhan Shenyou.
Thus, Grand Tutor Gan acted to consolidate his supreme power.
As for Geng Wenjin, then Deputy of the Privy Council, his goal was to break the military’s absolute obedience and allow the Privy Council to rise. Only with Zhan Shenyou gone could they truly take control of these rough, uncultured generals who did not understand human language.
Shang Xiguan’s motive was even simpler—stepping over his childhood friend and benefactor to rise in rank. After all, he had no talent for warfare. In this life, he was nothing more than a mediocre man. Without taking an unconventional path, where else could he find a way to rise overnight?
These three could be considered the principal conspirators. Grand Tutor Gan led the effort, Geng Wenjin acted as the front-line instigator, and Shang Xiguan, relying on his close ties with the Zhan family, gathered fabricated “evidence.”
Beyond the three of them, there were also many fence-sitters and yes-men in court who followed along and amplified the momentum. Every single one of them was an accomplice.
But too much time had passed, and there were too many accomplices. The principle of “punishing too many makes punishment impossible,” a helpless compromise no matter the era, was still applicable here.
Remove only the chief culprits—that was the only thing Meng Xi Zhao could realistically do.
Resting his cheek in his hand, Meng Xi Zhao raised an eyebrow.
What surprised him a little was that Yan Shunying had not actually taken part in those events.
Perhaps it was because his position at the time was not as stable as it was now, and he had not yet become the leader of the civil officials. At that time, he was merely a highly respected scholar-official. Human mentality changes. Without the experience of the past decade, he might not have been entirely driven by ambition yet. Faced with the injustice of loyal ministers being wrongly killed, his silence—whether self-protective or disapproving—was still silence.
Self-preservation, nothing more. Who could blame him?
As for exactly who had been involved back then, Meng Xi Zhao had not deliberately investigated it. Rather, through his official duties, he had gradually pieced the truth together. Moving within the court, he could easily reconstruct its past dynamics. But the inner palace was beyond his knowledge.
Emperor Tianshou could not have suddenly decided out of nowhere: “Oh, my father-in-law thinks Zhan Shenyou should die? Fine, then kill him.”
No—there must have been a deeper cause.
What was widely believed was that Zhan Shenyou was simply too skilled in war. Years ago, Emperor Tianshou personally led a campaign, only to bury sixty thousand troops and flee back to Yingtian in defeat. After his return, Zhan Shenyou led troops to reclaim the lost honor—this time forcing the Xiongnu into retreat instead.
People generally concluded that the humiliating comparison had damaged the emperor’s pride, and so he wanted Zhan Shenyou dead.
Emperor Tianshou was indeed willful… but Meng Xi Zhao always felt that this explanation alone was not enough to justify such a decision. If it was simply about wounded pride, then what about Grand Tutor Yang? That man had trampled the emperor’s dignity and face into the ground, and yet he had still returned home safely.
He did not like killing ministers, and yet he had killed Zhan Shenyou in such a swift and brutal manner. Anyone unaware would think there was some deep, irreconcilable blood feud between them.
Guessing alone would not yield an answer—and this confusion had actually been resolved by the Crown Prince.
Cui Ye remained in the palace as a kind of auspicious mascot, but he was not someone who did nothing year after year. If he truly did nothing, he would have long ago fallen into Grand Tutor Gan’s trap.
Rather, Cui Ye simply did not compete for power; that did not mean he was willing to be slaughtered at will.
So he had quietly developed his own network of people outside the palace to act as his eyes and ears.
As for the enmity between Emperor Tianshou and Zhan Shenyou, it had been overheard entirely by accident—so much so that neither the speaker nor the listener had taken it seriously at the time.
The emperor’s true reason for killing Zhan Shenyou had nothing to do with his military brilliance. Rather, he disliked the man personally.
First, Zhan Shenyou had never shown him the reverence due an emperor. In his eyes, Emperor Tianshou was the Son of Heaven, the supreme ruler—but Zhan Shenyou never treated him as such. At times, he even looked at the emperor with disappointment. That gaze alone had become a thorn in his side.
Second, Zhan Shenyou had once spoken ill of Consort Gan.
When Consort Gan was still alive, Zhan Shenyou had been stationed on the frontier against the Xiongnu. He had not been involved in the court’s fierce debate over deposing the empress. When the news reached the military camp, he had simply remarked: “A seductive consort brings ruin to the nation.”
Perhaps he had meant it sincerely, or perhaps it had been a casual remark he did not think much of. In any case, it had been relayed back to Emperor Tianshou, who had been angered—but not yet moved to kill.
That changed after Consort Gan died.
The emperor began to resent everyone, convinced that all of them had wished for her death. That poisonous wine—hadn’t they all been waiting for her to drink it? Weren’t they secretly celebrating behind his back?
Zhan Shenyou, who had once spoken those words, was marked in the emperor’s mind with a heavy cross.
And when Grand Tutor Gan and the others came forward to accuse Zhan Shenyou, even Emperor Tianshou’s original resentment—already at eight parts—was pushed to ten.
Grand Tutor Gan was truly something else. Knowing Zhan Shenyou’s temperament, he engineered it so the emperor issued a decree summoning him back from the battlefield. During wartime, how could a general possibly return? Refusal was inevitable—and that refusal only confirmed Grand Tutor Gan’s narrative.
The emperor became furious: “He dares defy imperial orders?” More decrees followed until Zhan Shenyou had no choice but to return.
When he did, he came back in anger. Grand Tutor Gan then arranged for his audience in the imperial garden, where the emperor had been tending exotic serpents.
Seeing the once-grand imperial garden reduced to this, and that massive python within it, Zhan Shenyou found the situation absurd—and his expression reflected it.
But those very things—Consort Gan, the serpent—were the emperor’s most cherished possessions.
Under Grand Tutor Gan’s guidance, Zhan Shenyou ended up stepping on every one of Emperor Tianshou’s emotional triggers without realizing it.
And so the emperor finally snapped.
Zhan Shenyou was imprisoned on the spot in the imperial garden. What followed was the chaotic, poorly concluded three-day “judgment” that history still could not make sense of.
Grand Tutor Gan, ten years younger and far more agile than he was now, had been particularly active, constantly fanning the flames at the emperor’s ear. Meng Xi Zhao could easily imagine his methods.
Nothing more than persuading the emperor that meeting Zhan Shenyou in the imperial garden was an honor—proof of imperial favor. And with that mindset, the emperor had faced the very general he already despised.
The result had been inevitable.
Sitting in the chamber as the moon rose high outside, Meng Xi Zhao finally realized how late it had become. He stroked his chin lightly, let out a small smile, then stood up, calmly gathered his things, and prepared to head home.
＊
The next day, Meng Xi Zhao still left early in the morning. He then found a teahouse beside the imperial palace and leisurely drank tea.
When Qingfu ran in and whispered a few words into his ear, he merely responded with an “mm,” had Qingfu pay the bill, and then entered the palace himself.
He had instructed Qingfu to watch for when Grand Tutor Gan would arrive precisely so he could enter the palace immediately after him.
As expected, when they reached the Huanning Hall, Grand Tutor Gan was stopped at the entrance by an inner attendant. The attendant himself did not understand why the emperor had suddenly grown so hostile toward Grand Tutor Gan—just hearing his name was enough to provoke anger. Afraid that the emperor’s mood might improve later, he still treated Grand Tutor Gan with the same polite courtesy as before, earnestly persuading him to return.
Grand Tutor Gan had come today fully prepared, intending to reassert his presence. The emperor’s continued refusal to see him had already made him suspicious.
At that moment, Meng Xi Zhao walked up beside him, smiled faintly, and then told the attendant to trouble him to report.
Another attendant went inside, and soon returned with news: Emperor Tianshou had agreed.
The difference in treatment left Grand Tutor Gan completely stunned.
Before stepping forward, Meng Xi Zhao suddenly turned his head and gave him a proud, almost sinister smile—as though he had anticipated all of this long ago.
That smile sent a chill down Grand Tutor Gan’s spine. He instinctively looked toward the hall doors, a ridiculous suspicion surfacing in his mind.
Was the emperor refusing to see him because Meng Xi Zhao had done something behind the scenes?
Was this his way of retaliating for the matter involving Li Huai?
If it had been before, in such cold weather, Grand Tutor Gan might have endured it and left, only to send his disciples to investigate later. But now, watching Meng Xi Zhao enter first, he felt as though something was scratching at his heart. He immediately changed his mind—he could not leave. No matter what, he had to see the emperor today.
Inside Huanning Hall.
During his period of illness, many ministers had already come and gone. Meng Xi Zhao was neither early nor late, just enough to avoid drawing the emperor’s attention.
The emperor had punished many people yesterday, and his anger had eased slightly today—though only slightly.
Meng Xi Zhao first removed his outer robe in the main hall. Feeling the almost midsummer heat inside Huanning Hall, he could not help but wipe the sweat forming on his forehead.
Whether the emperor truly feared the cold so much, or whether it was the physicians’ instruction, it was far too hot. Was there no concern about overheating people into illness?
Led by an attendant, Meng Xi Zhao entered the side hall—the emperor’s bedchamber.
Leaning against the head of the bed, Emperor Tianshou sat with a blank expression. At the sound of footsteps, his gloomy eyes immediately turned toward Meng Xi Zhao.
Qin Feimang stood nearby serving him. Su Ruocun had also been present, but she was now resting behind a screen.
The emperor stared at Meng Xi Zhao. Meng Xi Zhao, in turn, looked at him in apparent shock.
The last person who dared to look at the emperor like that had already been dragged out and beaten.
Qin Feimang, having been tricked by Meng Xi Zhao too many times before, instinctively felt that although this looked like a suicidal move, it probably was not that simple.
And indeed—as expected.
After a brief moment of stunned silence, Meng Xi Zhao suddenly turned his head away and rubbed his eyes hard, as though he had lost control of himself.
When he turned back again, his expression had returned to normal. He smiled as if nothing were wrong, like his usual lively self—but anyone with eyes could see that the corners of his eyes were red, with faint traces of moisture that had not been fully wiped away.
Qin Feimang: “……”
I knew it.
Meng Xi Zhao stepped forward with a smile and bowed.
“This subject greets Your Majesty. May Your Majesty be at peace.”
Emperor Tianshou asked coldly, “What are you crying for?”
Meng Xi Zhao’s smile stiffened. He shook his head repeatedly. “This subject did not cry.”
“Do you think I did not see it?”
Meng Xi Zhao hesitated, his expression tight. He instinctively looked toward the others, but there was no one in the hall he could seek help from. Turning back, he paused again before trying to explain.
“This subject… this subject did not rest well last night. My eyes are somewhat painful, which is why I失仪 before Your Majesty. I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness.”
The emperor stared at him in silence.
Since falling ill, he had found it difficult to feel many positive emotions, but he had become more perceptive than before.
Those who loudly proclaimed loyalty were not necessarily loyal. The truly devoted ones were often inarticulate.
Like Meng Xi Zhao—usually eloquent and sharp-tongued, yet at a time like this, he could not even say the customary reassurances such as “Your Majesty is blessed by heaven” or “this subject is deeply worried.” Instead, he offered such clumsy excuses to hide his embarrassment.
Seeing Meng Xi Zhao also inevitably reminded the emperor of Cui Ye.
Cui Ye had come last night without saying much, stayed briefly, then left. This morning he came again, still saying little—but the dark circles under his eyes revealed everything.
Compared to the noisy Sixth Prince, the silent Crown Prince seemed slightly better.
The emperor drifted into thought again. Then suddenly, frowning, he said to Qin Feimang rather impatiently:
“Why are you not giving Meng Daren a seat?”
Qin Feimang, already accustomed to the emperor’s volatile temper, quickly responded and personally brought over a round stool.
Meng Xi Zhao looked flattered, but still in a subdued state, he only gave Qin Feimang a strained smile and quietly thanked him.
He sat down—but, like the Crown Prince, became a tightly sealed gourd that would not speak.
The emperor would not question the Crown Prince, but he would question Meng Xi Zhao, who was usually so outspoken.
“So now you have nothing to say?”