When Meng Xizhao left the Ministry residence, the Crown Prince was also just leaving Huanning Hall.
After performing an act of father-and-son harmony in front of Emperor Tianshou for half the day, Crown Prince Cui Ye’s expression was somewhat cold and detached.
Grand Tutor Gan watched him pass without even glancing sideways, then could no longer sit still and once again requested an audience with the Emperor.
For reasons unknown, Emperor Tianshou actually agreed this time.
Grand Tutor Gan had stood outside in the cold for quite a while, his hands and feet nearly numb, which ironically made it easier for him to play his role.
Feigning a frail, near-death state, he staggered into the hall. The moment he saw the Emperor, he was shocked.
This was no longer the same ruler. The man before him now looked even more lifeless than an old man like himself.
Grand Tutor Gan froze for a moment, then quickly suppressed his expression and replaced it with one of deep sorrow. Tears welled up as he slowly approached, and when he reached the Emperor, he swayed as if about to kneel.
Normally, Qin Feimang would have stepped forward to help him up, but today Qin Feimang kept his eyes lowered, pretending not to see.
A sharp “click” echoed in Grand Tutor Gan’s mind—he almost heard the sound of his kneecap shifting out of place.
Grand Tutor Gan: “……”
But the situation was urgent, and he no longer had the time to care about Qin Feimang’s attitude. Prostrating himself on the ground, he spoke tearfully of his concern for Emperor Tianshou, saying that if anything were to happen to His Majesty, he would have no face to meet his ancestors or the late Consort in the afterlife.
Emperor Tianshou: “……”
Qin Feimang silently sighed in his heart.
This was nothing short of courting death.
What followed afterward was known only to the three people in the hall.
To the outside world, what was seen was this: the Emperor threw Grand Tutor Gan out of the palace. Grand Tutor Gan’s official hat was twisted and askew, as if he had endured something unimaginable.
Shortly afterward, another imperial decree was issued—Grand Tutor Gan was stripped of three years of salary and ordered to remain in seclusion to reflect on his actions. As for the duration of that reflection, the Emperor did not specify.
This decree immediately shocked the entire capital of Ying Tian Prefecture. Everyone rushed to find out what had happened, but after much investigation, all they could gather were a few bits of gossip from palace attendants.
It was said that Grand Tutor Gan had spoken slanderously before His Majesty—accusing Magistrate Meng of bewitching the Emperor and harming loyal ministers. He further defamed the Crown Prince, claiming that the Crown Prince’s behavior after the Emperor fell ill had been unusually suspicious, as though he harbored some unknown intentions.
After hearing these words, no one knew what His Majesty suddenly thought of, but he flew into a violent rage on the spot. He cursed Grand Tutor Gan until the man was utterly humiliated, hurling every kind of harsh insult at him. Grand Tutor Gan was left completely stunned, and only then was he thrown out of the palace.
Everyone harbored different thoughts, quickly adjusting their plans and strategies based on this new development.
Meanwhile, Emperor Tianshou himself had no idea what was happening outside. He sat in Huanning Hall, brooding in anger for an entire night.
After a stroke, a person’s mental state could fluctuate wildly—good one moment, unstable the next—and with his reversed day-night rhythm, ordinary people simply could not endure Emperor Tianshou’s unpredictable temperament. Even the Crown Prince, though required to act the part of a filial son, did not actually spend much time by his side each day.
The main attendants who served the Emperor were still Qin Feimang, along with the recently promoted Su Xianfei.
Compared to the rigid and unyielding Qin Feimang, Emperor Tianshou clearly preferred the soft and gentle Su Ruocun.
Su Ruocun was very skilled at pleasing people. She had a strange, calming charm—when someone was irritable and spoke to her for a few words, they would gradually settle down, feeling as though nothing in the world was truly worth getting upset over.
Because of this, Emperor Tianshou became increasingly dependent on her, and trusted everything she said without doubt.
Now that Emperor Tianshou was naturally suspicious, Su Ruocun understood this well. She rarely wasted his trust on trivial matters; most of what she did truly benefited him, and in the rare cases where it did not, he simply could not see through it.
For example, just then, she had retrieved the “Heavenly Stone” that the Emperor had forgotten in the Western Warm Pavilion for several days and placed it into his hands. In a soft voice, she said:
“These past few days, Your Majesty has not been sleeping well. Perhaps it is because the Heavenly Stone has not been by your side. This object once brought Your Majesty great fortune. If Your Majesty keeps it with you, your health will surely continue to improve.”
Emperor Tianshou had nearly forgotten that he still possessed such a treasure. Feeling the increasingly smooth surface of the stone he had been constantly handling, he did in fact feel a sense of nostalgia.
He said to Su Ruocun, “Only my beloved consort understands me.”
Su Ruocun smiled faintly, then subtly shifted herself a little farther back.
After Emperor Tianshou fell ill, the volatile substances originally inside the Heavenly Stone had disappeared and been replaced entirely with ingredients that could sharpen alertness and clear the mind.
The exact pharmacological principles were difficult even for Meng Xizhao to fully explain. In short, it resembled the “Cold Food Powder” once popular among scholars centuries ago—something that made one feel energized and powerful, but whose long-term effects gradually weakened the body.
However, since it did not need to be ingested directly, its impact was far milder. Being near it and absorbing only a small amount would not cause major problems.
Still, Su Ruocun did not want to take the risk. She had already decided that when she returned, she would take some restorative medicine. She was still young and had no intention of developing any strange ailments.
Meng Xizhao’s purpose in doing this was simply to ensure the Heavenly Stone’s effect remained intact so the Emperor would not grow suspicious. At the same time, it also acted like a stimulant—keeping the Emperor from believing he was nearing death, preventing him from spiraling into philosophical dread and then suddenly overreaching with reckless, costly decisions that would burden the people.
……
With the Heavenly Stone returned to his hand, Emperor Tianshou actually felt better that night. The next day, he experienced a rare moment of mental clarity.
He picked up the poem he had likely read over a thousand times, then placed it into a candle flame and burned it.
A man’s pride was terrifying. He would never openly speak of being betrayed in such a humiliating way. But if he allowed this matter to continue, others would keep praising Consort Gan, and the Gan family would continue benefiting from her legacy. Just thinking about it filled him with renewed anger.
In his mind, there was absolutely no one left in the world—besides himself, the Sixth Prince, and the Gan family—who would still think well of Consort Gan.
While he was still brooding over how to vent his fury, Qin Feimang approached and reported that Minister Meng had arrived.
Emperor Tianshou gave an “oh” and ordered him to be brought in.
Meng Jiuyu entered the hall and instinctively looked toward the dragon bed—but when he saw Emperor Tianshou standing right in front of him, he froze completely.
Then, an expression of overwhelming joy appeared on his face.
“Your Majesty! You have recovered significantly!”
But immediately after, a flicker of shock crossed his eyes. His gaze shifted slightly aside.
“No wonder last night—”
Emperor Tianshou had been lying in bed for several days, but today he indeed felt better than ever. However, after standing too long, his legs were still somewhat weak, and he was just about to sit down when he heard this. He asked in confusion, “Jiuyu, what happened last night?”
Meng Jiuyu looked at him and let out a bitter laugh, bowing deeply.
“Please forgive me for laughing at myself, Your Majesty. Last night, this minister had an utterly absurd dream—I dreamed of my late teacher.”
Emperor Tianshou asked, “Your teacher was…?”
Meng Jiuyu sighed softly.
“Grand Tutor Yang.”
……
A “teacher-disciple relationship” in the imperial examination system referred to the bond between students and the chief examiner. Scholars valued lineage greatly: even if the examiner had never personally taught them, the act of selecting their examination papers made him their benefactor, and thus he was honored as a teacher.
Unless something unusual occurred, this relationship continued until one of them died. Not everyone wanted to align themselves under such ties, but the system effectively forced candidates into forming these connections.
Though it appeared domineering and even somewhat absurd, in most cases it was the only usable network available to scholars from humble backgrounds. Thus, those from such origins would cling tightly to this relationship, honoring their examiners as true teachers.
Regardless of motive, the result was the same: scholars formed tightly knit groups. Academic lineages naturally became factions—cohesive, powerful, and difficult to break.
Yan Shunying had relied on precisely this system to secure his position as the leader of civil officials. By controlling the imperial examinations, he ensured that even if he did not serve as chief examiner himself, one of his people would. Anyone else trying to interfere had no chance at all.
In terms of scholarship, Meng Jiuyu was not inferior to Yan Shunying. However, because the latter kept a tight watch on him, he never had the opportunity to cultivate his own disciples. Nor did he properly maintain the networks he had previously built. As a result, by now, the number of civil officials aligned with him was extremely small.
Because of this, Emperor Tianshou had no impression at all of who Meng Jiuyu’s teacher had been. In his mind, Meng Jiuyu seemed to have simply “popped out of a crack in a stone,” with no such connection at all.
……
As for Grand Tutor Yang, when the name was first mentioned, Emperor Tianshou paused for a moment. Only after a while did he gradually recall an old, withered man who always held up the ancestral statutes of the Cui family and urged him to revoke his decisions.
Grand Tutor Yang’s former status was equivalent to Yan Shunying’s current position. Moreover, because he was a Grand Tutor and the most trusted veteran minister of Emperor Tianshou’s father, his reputation had even surpassed Yan Shunying’s. After Emperor Tianshou ascended the throne, he did not wish to be controlled by anyone—but this Grand Tutor Yang had been the one who controlled him the most.
However, no matter how much resentment or dislike there had once been, those things were already in the past. Grand Tutor Yang was dead now.
In the hearts of the living, the dead only take on two forms: either increasingly vilified, or increasingly idealized. There is no rational way of remembering them—everything eventually becomes distorted.
It had been a long time since Emperor Tianshou last thought of Grand Tutor Yang. Hearing Meng Jiuyu speak of a dream from the previous night, it was nothing particularly remarkable: in the dream, Grand Tutor Yang merely smiled at Meng Jiuyu, and Meng Jiuyu took it as a good omen.
The real emphasis came afterward.
As someone who had shared trials and tribulations with him, Meng Jiuyu led Emperor Tianshou into reminiscing about the past. He spoke of how difficult the first year after Emperor Tianshou ascended the throne had been, how capable His Majesty had been even then, and how—under Grand Tutor Yang’s guidance—the atmosphere in the court had once been far better than it was now. So why, he asked, had not a single one of those old ministers remained today?
Emperor Tianshou: “……”
He slowly turned his head. “Are you saying this is my fault?”
Meng Jiuyu paused, then immediately shook his head repeatedly. “It is this minister’s fault. This minister was timid and failed to live up to the expectations of my teacher.”
After that, Meng Jiuyu continued guiding Emperor Tianshou through memories of better days, even bringing up some lighthearted anecdotes. Emperor Tianshou actually let out a faint laugh.
Watching the Emperor’s expression, Meng Jiuyu silently nodded in approval.
His son had been right.
Killing people with a soft blade was the most effective method. After being betrayed by Consort Gan, what Emperor Tianshou needed most now was gentle comfort from others.
…It’s a bit nauseating, though.
But never mind that.
Meng Jiuyu continued without pause. In his words, Grand Tutor Yang was practically the most loyal and self-sacrificing minister in the world—devoted his entire life to the Cui dynasty, exhausted himself for two generations of rulers. It was only unfortunate that treacherous officials were rampant and petty men blocked his path, leaving him ultimately full of regret.
He cleverly shifted all blame onto “petty men,” minimizing Emperor Tianshou’s presence so as not to provoke his anger. When the atmosphere was about right and the Emperor had begun to open up emotionally, the conversation naturally turned more personal.
Sitting together like this, speaking candidly as ruler and minister in a rare moment of relative equality, Emperor Tianshou finally began to speak from the heart.
Of course, he would not admit to Meng Jiuyu that he had been deceived by a woman. He only said that he now felt some regret—that perhaps he should not have treated Grand Tutor Yang and the others so harshly back then.
Meng Jiuyu’s eyelids lifted slightly. This time, he did not even need his son’s guidance—he knew the moment had come.
In an instant, he adjusted his expression to the most complicated mixture of emotion possible. Clenching his fists, he looked as though he desperately wanted to speak, yet could not decide whether he should—struggling, on the verge of breaking.
Emperor Tianshou, currently softened by emotion, naturally allowed him to speak.
And Meng Jiuyu immediately took the opportunity.
He stepped forward, then suddenly dropped to his knees before the Emperor, his face full of sorrow.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “as maternal relatives, the Gan family has repeatedly interfered in state affairs. They have already reached the point of monopolizing power and dominating the court. This minister is a lone loyal subject of Your Majesty—there are things others dare not say, but I must say them. Your Majesty, what right does Gan Rui have to repeatedly exploit your trust in him?!”
Emperor Tianshou looked at him in silence.
The hall was completely quiet. He did not tell Meng Jiuyu to rise, nor did he reprimand him.
The balance of power—once tilted entirely to one side—had finally begun to sway again.
Meanwhile: Nuxun Residence
Meng Xizhao rested his head in his hands, waiting.
When the door was pushed open, his eyes immediately lit up as he turned.
Cui Ye stood at the doorway in plain clothes, closing the door behind him. He did not walk further in, only raised a faint eyebrow as he looked at Meng Xizhao.
Meng Xizhao clicked his tongue, then ran over on his own.
They embraced. Meng Xizhao felt a sudden, childlike joy, like a fledgling returning to its nest. He rubbed against Cui Ye’s neck and said,
“Sometimes I really want to hide you in my pocket. When I need you, I’ll take you out; when I’m busy with other things, I’ll put you back. No one can see you, and no one can touch you.”
He waited for Cui Ye’s response. After a moment of silence, he looked up and said seriously, “At this point, you should say, ‘Me too.’”
Cui Ye lowered his gaze and only smiled faintly.
Meng Xizhao paused. “…What?”
Cui Ye let out a soft sigh. “You’re only joking. If I said that, I would be serious.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Feeling slightly stumped, he changed the subject. “So, how is it? How many people came to you today?”
“Many,” Cui Ye said. “Mostly members of the imperial clan and lower-ranking officials. Those above the fourth rank are probably still observing.”
“Let them observe,” Meng Xizhao said. “We’re walking the orthodox path. We need support, but we’re not desperate for it. You know how to decide these things—I won’t interfere.”
Cui Ye had already noticed: Meng Xizhao was not particularly enthusiastic about forming factions or expanding influence. He enjoyed conflict and experimenting with new ideas, but when it came to long-term alliances and constant politicking, unless the situation required it, he would avoid it entirely.
In fact, Cui Ye didn’t like these things either, but between the two of them, someone had to do it.
Seeing him nod, and knowing he would take care of everything properly, Meng Xizhao immediately flashed him a flattering smile and threw himself at him again for a proper moment of warmth and closeness. Only after that did he bring up his father’s trip to the palace that day.
“As for the result, we’ll know when we go back later. Grand Tutor Gan lost a great deal of face yesterday—he probably hasn’t stopped stirring up trouble even at home.”
Saying this, Meng Xizhao rarely showed a hint of uncertainty.
“Do you think His Majesty can make up his mind and wipe out the Gan family in one sweep?”
After all, the Gan family was not like Qiu Suming’s case. In the emperor’s eyes, they were not truly guilty of anything unforgivable.
Interfering in court affairs, controlling appointments in the Ministry of Personnel, taking bribes, allowing their clan members to act recklessly and tyrannically—on paper it looked serious, but to the emperor, it might not even count as a real issue.
While thinking yesterday, Meng Xizhao had even felt the urge to force Grand Tutor Gan into rebellion.
After all, rebellion was an absolute death sentence. If the Gan family truly did that, then even if Noble Consort Gan herself pleaded for their innocence in a dream, the family would never be restored again.
But when he thought about it more, it was impossible. No matter how powerful the Gan family was, they had no military power. And now, not only Zhan Buxiu but even Ding Chun was stationed in Yingtian Prefecture. If they were foolish enough to choose rebellion at this time, they would likely be annihilated before even reaching the palace gates.
As for Shang Xiguan, who he had a bit of personal connection with—relying on him was worse than relying on a dog.
Seeing Meng Xizhao’s slightly anxious expression, Cui Ye patted his head.
“Er Lang, do you know how many people in the court are hoping the Gan family will fall?”
Meng Xizhao paused.
“You mean people like Yan Shunying and the others?”
Cui Ye replied, “Not only them. The Six Ministries as well. There are also officials who have long been unable to rise in rank, and those who have been stuck in the capital unable to make a name for themselves, hoping to be reassigned elsewhere to become local governors. If the Gan faction is removed, their chance arrives. Not to mention, bringing down a Grand Tutor can be split into more than ten portions of merit—enough for them to live comfortably for several years. And with the court’s factions constantly shifting, this is the perfect time to fish in troubled waters. As you often say, wealth and status are found in danger. They don’t even need to risk their lives—only risk not being promoted. Who wouldn’t want a share of that?”
Listening to Cui Ye, Meng Xizhao suddenly thought of the original ending of the Meng family.
In the original storyline, the only person in the court from the Meng family was Meng Jiuyu. After his death, there weren’t many positions left to free up, but still, many people rushed forward to spit on their family. Some even wrote memorial denunciations filled with “sincere outrage,” so emotional that one would think Meng Jiuyu had killed their father. To them, even if they couldn’t rise in rank, being seen by higher-ranking ministers was enough. One appearance, one statement, and they might gain a stepping stone to success.
Fair-weather friends… the most helpless—and also the most powerful—kind of opportunists.
No one respected them, yet so many towering powers had been brought down by their united and overwhelming shift in direction.
Thinking of this, Meng Xizhao felt a complicated emotion rise in his heart. It wasn’t disgust exactly—just something hard to describe. After a moment of silence, he suddenly laughed.
Cui Ye looked at him and asked, “What are you laughing at?”
Meng Xizhao shook his head.
“I’m laughing that all of this will be your problem in the future. Hard work ahead. I heard that if a man is overworked, he can start losing his hair. When that happens, I’ll definitely have the people at my estate develop the best hair-growth tonic for you.”
As soon as he finished speaking, he turned to walk toward the dining table.
But just as he took a step, the back of his collar was grabbed.
Cui Ye lifted him effortlessly with a slight tug and pulled him back to his side. He looked at Meng Xizhao with a dark, almost sinister expression.
“Er Lang, have you forgotten? I ended up in this situation because of your so-called ‘our future’ that you keep talking about.”
He emphasized the last words heavily. When he finished, a faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips—but it looked somewhat chilling.
“…So you’re already thinking of escaping and enjoying yourself? Er Lang, don’t you think that’s a bit too convenient?”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Just talk properly. Don’t grab my collar.