Shen Zechuan was writing a letter inside the room, so Qiao Tianya and Fei Sheng stepped out.
Fei Sheng was craving a smoke, but he did not dare light one under the eaves, afraid the smell would linger in case Shen Zechuan summoned him. He lingered for a moment, and seeing that Qiao Tianya had no intention of leaving, he immediately understood.
“So, something’s up,” Fei Sheng said, stepping a few paces aside and leaning against the railing beneath the corridor. “You go first—what’s your connection to that ‘Pu Yu Yuan Zhuo’?”
“Met him before. Not close. Just remember him a bit,” Qiao Tianya replied lightly.
The more casually he said it, the more certain Fei Sheng became that there was something behind it. “Yao Wenyu never entered official service. Just a scholar in plain clothes, always out and about. Even Marquis Helian had trouble meeting him. Where did you run into him?”
“Fate,” Qiao Tianya answered, not taking it seriously. “Didn’t expect it either. That’s why I’m asking you to look into it.”
Unable to pry anything more out, Fei Sheng dropped the matter and said plainly, “Before Elder Hai got into trouble, he once told Yao Wenyu to leave the capital and return to Jin City. That’s the Yao clan’s ancestral home, and there are Grand Preceptor Yao’s students there who could look after him. But Yao Wenyu didn’t go.”
Qiao Tianya let out an “oh” and stood under the eaves, watching the rain fall steadily.
Fei Sheng continued, “He probably realized at the time that Elder Hai was prepared to die. So he got on the carriage, made a loop, and came back, waiting at the residence for Elder Hai to return from court. But what he got instead was the news of Elder Hai’s death by remonstration.”
Raindrops dampened the tips of Qiao Tianya’s boots. He stared at the thin mist rising in the courtyard, his gaze settling on a puddle where he saw his own reflection.
After a pause, Fei Sheng glanced at Qiao Tianya’s unchanged expression before continuing, “When Elder Hai was buried, tens of thousands came to see him off. Yao Wenyu was his only student and handled the funeral as if for a father. A few days later, the Imperial Academy rioted—his books were all torn apart. If Kong Qiu hadn’t hidden him in time, he might have been torn to pieces by the students. But after the incident with the imperial princess, he just… vanished. Even my informants in the capital couldn’t find a trace of him.”
Qiao Tianya turned his gaze and repeated, “Vanished?”
“That’s right. Vanished.” Fei Sheng traced a circle in the air with his hand. “When we fled the capital, I lost contact with my informants for a while and only reestablished it recently. By then, Yao Wenyu was already gone. The capital is the Embroidered Guard’s home ground—if my people say he vanished, then most likely, he’s dead.”
Qiao Tianya immediately shook his head. “Impossible. Kong Qiu still wants to revive the moderate faction, and Yao Wenyu is essential. Whether for public or private reasons, Kong Qiu wouldn’t let him die.”
Fei Sheng watched him finish before continuing, “I say he’s dead for a reason—hear me out. At first, he was just missing. Kong Qiu and Cen Yu both searched for him but found nothing. The last place he appeared was Bodhi Mountain, where Hai Liangyi was buried. My people went to investigate and found an abandoned carriage—he’d been abducted. But if it were a straightforward kidnapping, there would’ve been negotiations with Kong Qiu. At the very least, demands would’ve been made. Yet Kong Qiu received nothing. Neither did the Yao clan in Jin City.”
Qiao Tianya frowned slightly. “If the academy riot hadn’t happened, he would’ve been the rising star of the moderate faction. But after that, the Yao family declined sharply. He could no longer command the scholars of the realm. To the capital, he was already a discarded piece. Killing him would require a reason—and I don’t see one.”
“Exactly,” Fei Sheng said, puzzled. “No rank, no office, yet still the Yao clan’s legitimate heir. Killing him brings trouble, not benefit. I can’t figure it out either.”
From inside the room, Shen Zechuan called for someone. Qiao Tianya cut the conversation short, lifted the curtain, and went in, never bringing the matter up again.
Luomu was cautious. Instead of speaking directly to Cai Yu, he first won over Cai Yu’s concubine, allowing her to accompany him in and out of the study. The private letters inside were half-concealed; a maid from the Cai household copied them down and quietly delivered them to Cai Yu.
The moment Cai Yu read them, he flew into a rage, summoned Luomu, and cursed him viciously.
“I took you for an honest man, that’s why I married my sister to you! Whenever your household had trouble, wasn’t it me, Cai Yu, who helped you out? I treated you like family, and you stab me in the back! Luo Mengzheng, look at yourself—without me backing you, what are you? And you really think you’re someone now?”
Cai Yu, accustomed to the rough world, spoke crudely. Luomu dropped to his knees, repenting at the table. “Brother has treated me well—how could I repay kindness with betrayal? These letters have no names; I don’t even know where they came from. I’ve been terrified, unable to sleep at night, just waiting for a chance to tell you.”
Cai Yu grew even angrier, throwing the letters onto the table. “Waiting for a chance? We’re just separated by a courtyard! Are your legs broken? If I hadn’t found out early, you’d already be colluding with them!”
He paced, clutching his chest in agitation.
“You’re no good, Luo Mengzheng! I was wondering why so many people started cursing me after spring—it turns out you lot have been plotting behind my back! A bunch of shameless vermin! When I made my name, you were still running around in split pants! I’ve supported you all this time, and this is how you repay me? What—now that grain’s making money, you’re all greedy? Bah! You think you’re fit for this business? Can you even handle it?”
Luomu trembled, trying to speak, but Cai Yu barked, “Stay on your knees! Outside, I gave you face, propped you up every way I could. You didn’t cherish it and instead mixed with these ingrates. Let me tell you—if not for my sister’s feelings, you wouldn’t be leaving here alive today!”
Sweat poured down Luomu’s face as he lowered his head and said nothing.
Cai Yu stood there, sneering as he saw Luomu’s back soaked through. He had lived a life of bloodshed in his youth, and now, finally settled, everyone addressed him respectfully as “Old Cai.” Even the bandits he despised most dared not challenge him openly.
After who knew how long, Cai Yu’s anger subsided somewhat. In his eyes, Luomu lacked courage—keeping these letters so long meant he had been incited. That meant someone was truly plotting against him.
The thought left Cai Yu shaken, then furious. He believed he had been generous—though he took the lion’s share of grain profits, he still left scraps for the smaller factions so they wouldn’t starve. Yet they showed no gratitude.
“If they’re unrighteous, then I’ll be ruthless,” Cai Yu said coldly, sitting by the window. “Greed like a snake swallowing an elephant. I’ll make examples of a few and remind them—I may be old, but I’m not someone to be bullied.”
Thus, while Cai Yu loudly cracked down on the smaller factions, Shen Zechuan’s illness gradually improved. Fei Sheng worked quickly, recording Teazhou’s prices and even sending people to Fanzhou for the same purpose.
In the first few days, Shen Zechuan did not reveal that Cizhou had come for grain trade. Kong Ling simply went around purchasing goods, as if they were ordinary buyers. When people came to inquire, Kong Ling answered vaguely, showing little interest. After a few days, inquiries dwindled.
Kong Ling accompanied Shen Zechuan to shops belonging to the Xi family, which mostly dealt in imported goods, cosmetics, and medicinal herbs.
“Outside the city, people starve. Inside, wealth and peace remain,” Kong Ling remarked, lifting a handful of herbs to smell. “No matter the times, it’s always the common people who suffer.”
“Xi Hongxuan has foresight in business,” Shen Zechuan said, surveying the shop. “Most wouldn’t dare open such stores here—either fearing looting or failure. Zhongbo hasn’t had enough to eat for years, yet those with power inside the city live more lavishly than merchants in Juexi. What they lack are shops like these.”
“Money makes the world go round,” Kong Ling said thoughtfully.
Shen Zechuan’s discussion of Xi Hongxuan was, in essence, a discussion of his own treasury—something Kong Ling understood well. It was a reward for his alignment in Cizhou. Feeling a slight chill, Kong Ling thought he had been too bold before. Showing cleverness before a clever master was rarely wise.
He avoided the topic, and Shen Zechuan did not press further. After reviewing accounts and questioning shopkeepers about Juexi, Shen Zechuan accepted only a fan among the gifts offered, refusing jade and other valuables. Still, it didn’t feel right in his hand—he was used to the one Xiao Chiye had given him. He made do, but inwardly hoped Xiao Chiye wouldn’t forget it when he returned.
The rain stopped in Teazhou, but began in Libei. While Zhongbo remained warm, Libei had already turned cool. By July, the winds rose, and after the rain, the chill would follow.
Ever since receiving Xiao Fangxu’s letter, Xiao Chiye had been in a poor mood. He remained stationed at Camp Three but had extended patrols to include Bianbo Camp, overseeing both.
Wu Ziyu had planned to head north in three days to deliver warhorses but was delayed—he couldn’t leave without Xiao Chiye. Now in charge of Libei’s supplies, Xiao Chiye’s movements were no longer his own to decide.
Descending from the camp walls, Xiao Chiye returned to his tent in the rain. It was nearly dusk; cooks called out for meals. The Libei cavalry and the Imperial Army kept their distance, sitting apart.
The cavalry, having suffered defeats, were irritable. The Imperial Army, relaxed and playful, lacked discipline once armor was off—something the cavalry disdained.
Xiao Chiye took a cloth from Chenyang to wipe off. The tent was open for ventilation. Before he sat, Gu Jin entered and said, “Master, a letter from the young lord has arrived.”
Xiao Chiye took it, dismissed them, brewed coarse tea, and opened the bundle. Inside were few items: beneath an oilskin bag lay neatly folded clothes. He ignored them, opening the bag first.
Inside were only two things: a flattened, yellowed sprig of jiu li xiang, and a letter. The letter was slightly damp, still carrying the flower’s scent. He drained his tea in one gulp and opened it.
The letter was short. After reading it, his tea was gone. He glanced at the tent entrance, where Chenyang and Gu Jin still stood, and said calmly, “Drop the curtain. I’m cold.”
Once the curtain fell, he reread the letter several times, then lay heavily on the bed, holding it up and reading each word aloud.
“Separated for days, I know you long for me. I send this small thing to comfort you.”
“Touch it as you would touch me.”
He stared at the line, repeating it again.
“Touch it as you would touch me.”
His throat went dry. A smile tugged at his lips, something fierce in his gaze.
At the bottom, written lightly and hastily: “Alone, I cannot sleep. When will you return to bed? Hold me—then I can sleep.”
Xiao Chiye loosened his grip, staring upward. After a long moment, he suddenly rolled over and buried his face into the pillow.
Yet it felt as if Shen Zechuan were right beside him, murmuring lazily against his ear—
“Hold me… then you’ll sleep well.”