Langtao Xuejin ran out from the camp but did not go far, stopping on a snowy slope at the northern edge of Chashi Sinkhole. The mist was damp, and Shen Zechuan felt as though he were standing upon a vast, hazy lake—wherever his gaze drifted, there was nothing but white.
Xiao Chiye swung down from his horse and removed his helmet. Sweat dampened his temples; he breathed lightly, spirit blazing in his brow as he said, “Can you see Duanzhou?”
Shen Zechuan held Langtao Xuejin’s reins and handed him the blue handkerchief from his sleeve. Through the white breath of their breathing, he could only make out the watchtower of an abandoned relay station in the distance. But he understood Xiao Chiye’s exhilaration, and said, “When I look at Duanzhou now, it is as if I am looking into my own pouch.”
Xiao Chiye tilted his chin slightly, sweat trailing as he broke into a smile. Shen Zechuan looked at him and realized that he still retained the unruly arrogance he had once shown in Qudu—something Shen Zechuan wanted to claim for himself.
Shen Zechuan leaned in. His breath brushed across Xiao Chiye’s cheek, their noses nearly touching as he moved along Xiao Chiye’s temple—until, as he wished, he tasted the sweat there. The bitter, salty warmth melted between his teeth. As it slipped past his throat, he said, “From now on, this place will be your racetrack, Xiao Ce’an.”
Xiao Chiye lifted a hand to cover the back of Shen Zechuan’s neck. His iron gauntlet, not yet removed, was cold and hard, pressing against the soft pale skin, leaving a blade-like chill.
“I don’t want a racetrack.” Xiao Chiye’s straight nose brushed lightly over the same path Shen Zechuan had just traced. He stared into Shen Zechuan’s half-lidded, affectionate eyes and said, dangerously, “I want Shen Lanzhou.”
Shen Zechuan exhaled a warm breath toward him. Xiao Chiye thought he was about to be kissed—but Lanzhou took the chance to slip the blue handkerchief back from his hand. Then he sat upright again, pulling his cloak tightly around himself. The cold-sensitive prefect revealed only his eyes, the tips of his ears flushed red, and muttered, “Shen Lanzhou is freezing to death.”
Xiao Chiye was left holding empty air, not yet having processed what had happened.
Seeing the shifts in his expression, Shen Zechuan sensed he might try to grab him. He immediately flicked the reins, urging Langtao Xuejin back toward camp. Xiao Chiye held his helmet, the damp warmth still lingering where he had been licked. He touched it, like a virtuous youth who had just been teased by a rogue, irritation slowly rising.
“Shen Lanzhou…” Xiao Chiye watched him flee, then broke into a long stride, sliding down the snowy slope as he shouted, “Heartless!”
Confident of victory, Achi was defeated at Chashi Sinkhole. The Biansha forces, who had been winning in the north for half a year, never expected Achi to lose to Xiao Chiye. The remnants of Duanzhou could not withstand Wu Ziyu’s surprise attack, and thus all six prefectures of Zhongbo fell under Shen Zechuan’s command. Seven days later, Qudu finally received the news—along with a military report of Qi Zhuyin’s campaign against the Qingshu Tribe.
The Empress Dowager sat behind a pearl curtain in Mingli Hall and flung the memorial onto the mat before her. The eastern pearls at her ears swayed as she suppressed her anger and said to the officials, “Did the Ministry of War reject Qidong’s request to deploy troops or not? Chen Zhen, you handle military affairs—can you not even give a clear answer?”
Minister of War Chen Zhen immediately knelt, knowing the Empress Dowager was venting her anger. Qi Zhuyin now commanded strong forces, and Qudu dared not offend her lightly, so they picked on easier targets nearby. He listened expressionlessly before replying, “In the first month, the Marshal submitted a memorial requesting to deploy troops against the Qingshu Tribe. We rejected it on the grounds of insufficient provisions. This matter is recorded in the Grand Secretariat—the Grand Tutor and the other ministers are all aware.”
The Empress Dowager knew this had not been ordered by the Ministry of War, but her anger lingered. After a pause, she asked, “Then why this time?”
“Seven days ago, a night patrol at the frontier was ambushed by the Qingshu Tribe,” Chen Zhen said, lifting his head slightly. “The Marshal was forced to mobilize troops.”
“Amur is fighting Libei in the north—why would the Qingshu Tribe provoke Qidong?” Han Cheng, who had once received Qi Zhuyin’s cold treatment during a marriage escort, smiled faintly from his seat. “And what a coincidence. The Qingshu Tribe attacks, and the Marshal just happens to be at the frontier. The battle is swift, and victory is reported alongside the original request—any faults conveniently resolved.”
Kong Qiu, who had fallen ill after the new year, coughed lightly behind his sleeve before speaking. “We must not judge on one side alone. If the Qingshu Tribe truly invaded, the Marshal’s actions were taken in urgency. The frontier has been unstable in recent years. Even when Lu Guangbai was stationed there, the Qingshu Tribe raided frequently. We need a detailed report. But more pressing is how long this campaign will last. Spring planting is near, and the thirteen cities of Juexi await arrangements. Military provisions are a major concern.”
Pan Xiangjie shrank into himself, sleeves tucked. With Xue Xiuzhuo investigating the Pan clan of Dancheng, matters had long been deadlocked. The disputes over land were unresolved—he dared not speak now, fearing the burden of military provisions would fall upon them.
The Empress Dowager opposed the campaign for two reasons: first, Qidong’s mobilization would effectively support Libei; second, Xue Xiuzhuo was pressing too hard on financial accounts. The Eight Great Clans were deeply intertwined, their foundation rooted in land. The idle heirs of the eight cities depended on those lands for survival. If investigations proceeded, simply returning land and compensating taxes would already deal them a heavy blow—not to mention the risks of dismissal or imprisonment. Qi Zhuyin’s campaign would require funding from the Ministry of Revenue. If the treasury ran dry, it would dredge up old issues from the Yongyi era. Acting in place of the crown prince while the real heir watched closely, the Empress Dowager dared not act rashly.
Whether Amur was truly a threat, the aristocratic clans did not know. But they knew the situation could not be prolonged. Zhongbo had already produced a formidable internal danger. Continued conflict with the crown prince and the cabinet would bring them no benefit.
“If the Qingshu Tribe has invaded, Qi Zhuyin need only repel them—there is no need to press deeper,” the Empress Dowager said after calming herself. “I understand the hardships of the frontier. War with the Biansha will come, but not now. As the Grand Tutor said, spring planting is imminent—the people must come first. Juexi did not have a full harvest last year, and Qudu’s granaries are not yet filled. How can the court spare provisions for war? This must be explained clearly to Qi Zhuyin. She oversees the five prefectures—she should already understand the court’s difficulties.”
Mingli Hall fell silent. The curtains at the entrance were tightly drawn, letting in no wind. The matter of Qi Zhuyin’s campaign weighed heavily on everyone.
In truth, both Kong Qiu and Cen Yu supported the campaign, but they were currently locked in struggle with the aristocratic clans. The Ministry of Revenue was controlled by Pan Lin, who was under heavy pressure from Xue Xiuzhuo and had no capacity to discuss funding. And since the Pan clan was at the center of the storm, Pan Xiangjie dared not let his son draw close to the cabinet at such a moment.
Pan Xiangjie had survived by bending with the wind. He wished to offend neither Xue Xiuzhuo nor the Empress Dowager. Until the outcome in Qudu was decided, he would not let the Pan clan commit to any side. He had once followed Hua Siqian and Wei Huaigu, but both had used him as a scapegoat—he trusted none of the three factions now.
Cen Yu let out a soft sigh. He spoke little in Mingli Hall these days. When Yu Xiaozai left the capital, he had carried Cen Yu’s letter to Shen Zechuan—but there had been no reply. That alone told him Shen Zechuan’s stance. A year ago, they had all gathered at his home for drinks. He still remembered the brilliance of Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye—now it only felt like a loss.
Cen Yu turned his gaze to Li Jianting. She sat quietly to the side, staring at her tea as if she had heard none of the discussion. After the meeting ended, Cen Yu and Kong Qiu walked together along a cleared path.
The palace eaves hung low on both sides, casting the road in shadow. A eunuch ahead carried a lantern. As Cen Yu walked, his robes stirred in the wind, scattering his newly grown short beard. He lifted a hand to smooth it.
Kong Qiu said, “Such a major matter today—why did you not speak at all?”
Cen Yu raised his eyes. “The Empress Dowager has already decided. Whether I speak or not, the result will be the same.”
By the time they left the palace gates, night had fallen. Cen Yu did not take a carriage. Instead, he carried a lantern himself and walked with Kong Qiu along the snowy road.
“You seem troubled today,” Kong Qiu observed. “What are you thinking about?”
“Thinking of this day last year,” Cen Yu said. “Back then, the Vice Minister and the Marquis were still in Qudu…”
If the Tianchen Emperor had not been assassinated, perhaps Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye would still be in Qudu. Cen Yu had always cherished talent and once hoped Shen Zechuan would enter official service—but fate had other plans. The charges against Shen Wei were too heavy.
Kong Qiu sighed as well, thinking of Hai Liangyi.
“If the Tianchen Emperor had even half the disposition of the crown prince, how would we have fallen to this? Lately I feel increasingly powerless. Some things truly cannot be turned around. Now the Marshal fights the Qingshu Tribe, and they refuse—not out of strategy, but because provisions will touch the lands of the eight cities. Yet Libei’s war grows dire—even the Prince of Libei, Xiao Fangxu, has fallen. The strength of the Biansha can no longer be underestimated.”
Cen Yu saw clearly—but clarity alone was useless. His words could not resolve the contradictions within Qudu. To force the aristocratic clans to give up their interests was nearly impossible.
They had not walked far when they saw a lone figure ahead, standing beneath a bamboo umbrella. Cen Yu and Kong Qiu exchanged glances and looked toward Xue Xiuzhuo.
Dressed in a fresh official robe without even a padded coat, he stood there alone, like a drifting leaf in a rushing current, his sleeves shifting in the wind. He lowered his umbrella and bowed.
Kong Qiu said, “You stand here—what business do you have?”
Xue Xiuzhuo straightened. Snow drifted past as he said, “I have waited here for both teachers to discuss the matter of Dancheng’s lands and taxes in detail.”
Cen Yu frowned slightly. “Court matters should be settled in court. There is no reason for private discussion. This case especially requires avoiding suspicion—if others see us, rumors will spread. Go back. We will speak after tomorrow’s morning session at the cabinet office.”
“If it were not urgent, I would not dare trouble you,” Xue Xiuzhuo said evenly. “At the beginning of the month, the Empress Dowager drafted an edict requiring key officials from the Ministry of Revenue to accompany the investigation. Pan Lin assigned Liang Cuishan, who oversees the salt taxes of Hezhou and Juexi.”
Both Kong Qiu and Cen Yu knew Liang Cuishan well. During the canal collapse, he had been recommended by Xiao Chiye and personally appointed by the Tianchen Emperor to investigate Wei Huaigu’s military provisions case. He was highly capable in managing finances and taxation. Last year, alongside Jiang Qingshan, he untangled long-standing accounts in the thirteen cities of Juexi, and later even managed grain transport in Hezhou for a time.
Yan Heru had once told Shen Zechuan that waterway trade had become difficult—the Yan clan’s shipments to Juexi were being strictly inspected because of Liang Cuishan. He handled matters smoothly but without corruption. Despite dealing daily with vast sums of tax silver, even Yan Heru could not find a way to influence him.
“Liang Cuishan has already returned to the capital and will have an audience at court tomorrow morning,” Xue Xiuzhuo said, holding his umbrella. “But this journey has placed him in mortal danger. He must meet with both of you tonight.”