In the blink of an eye, deep autumn arrived.
The case of the blood-sweating horses had been settled. The Meng family appeared to have suffered no losses; the Duke’s household likewise seemed unaffected. Li Huai had only endured a severe beating, and the Grand Tutor’s household lost only a minor official—so insignificant it was like a passing sneeze.
Looking at it this way, it seemed as though only one person had lost.
That person was Emperor Tianshou.
…
The two treasured blood-sweating horses he had longed for had died in quick succession. The third horse, despite the full efforts of all the veterinarians, ultimately could not be saved and was buried six feet underground along with the other two.
This left Emperor Tianshou with a deeply aching heart. Fortunately, Grand Tutor Gan soon had someone purchase two fine warhorses from the Xia Kingdom and present them to him, which finally soothed his petty dissatisfaction.
Everyone knew Grand Tutor Gan regularly gifted horses to the Emperor; it was nothing unusual, as their relationship was well known.
But very few people knew that even the Crown Prince had presented Emperor Tianshou with a horse.
It was said to be a massive horse purchased from the Kingdom of Ughuz. It stood imposing and formidable—its size was two full categories larger than the tall Xiongnu horses. Compared to it, the Central Plains horses looked utterly insignificant, like foals standing beside it.
The Kingdom of Ughuz was the birthplace of the blood-sweating horses. Everyone knew that the horses there were exceptional, but the region lay far too distant from the Central Plains. Even merchants rarely reached those lands, and no one knew through what channels the Crown Prince had managed to obtain such a prized steed.
There was an old saying: fools admire size… ahem.
In any case, compared to the two smaller horses gifted by Grand Tutor Gan, Emperor Tianshou naturally preferred this unique, jet-black Western Regions horse. Its stature and color reminded him of the famed steed “Zhui Feng Hei Zui” once ridden by Xiang Yu, the Hegemon-King of Western Chu. Sitting upon it, he even felt a fleeting illusion of possessing world-shaking strength and earth-splitting dominance.
However, he had not ridden it many times. The horse was simply too tall—so tall that even when eunuchs lifted him as high as possible, his stiff old body could barely manage to mount it.
Thus, after indulging in the novelty for a time, he handed the horse over to the Imperial Horse Bureau and returned to his familiar life of nightly revelry.
＊
Meng Xizhao sat in a teahouse in the outer city. The outer city did not have many proper establishments; this teahouse was the most luxurious one around. It was only two stories tall and had just a single private room. Fortunately, Meng Xizhao had arrived early—otherwise he would have been forced to sit in the main hall.
The tea master brewed the tea he had ordered and politely asked if anything else was needed. Meng Xizhao waved him away, and the man tactfully withdrew.
Lifting the steaming teacup, Meng Xizhao waited a moment longer before Zhan Buhui finally arrived.
As soon as he entered, he apologized, “Sorry. Matters in the military camp delayed me.”
Meng Xizhao naturally did not mind. “It’s fine. Sit. Try this Rui Long tea—it is no worse than what the major tea houses inside the inner city serve.”
Zhan Buhui sat as instructed. As a military man, he had little interest in such refined tea-drinking activities, but since Meng Xizhao had spoken, he silently took a sip.
Meng Xizhao watched him expectantly. “How is it?”
Zhan Buhui glanced at him and said two words, “Acceptable.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
After a pause, he suddenly smiled and stopped pressing him, instead turning to a topic Zhan Buhui was more familiar with. “Has General Ding sent any letters?”
Three months had passed since their return. General Ding Chun had been leading the main forces in southern campaigns in Nanzhao, and victory reports had been arriving frequently. However, Meng Xizhao did not have access to detailed military intelligence, and even his father could not interfere with the internal affairs of the Privy Council.
But Zhan Buhui shared a close bond with Ding Chun. Since joining the army, their relationship had been both superior and subordinate, and also like that of elder and younger generations. They exchanged letters every few days.
Zhan Buhui understood what he wanted to ask. Setting down the tasteless tea, he replied, “By the end of the year, the main army will return to the capital.”
“Nanzhao remnants?” Meng Xizhao asked.
“They have been confined within their stronghold. High mountains and dangerous cliffs surround it—difficult to take. If we force an assault, it would likely take more than two years.”
Meng Xizhao thought to himself: two years might not even be enough.
Just like in the Bashu region—Bashu had already been conquered by the Kingdom of Ba before the common era, yet the Ba people still remained, continuing to trouble local officials. They occupied natural defensive terrain and were tightly united internally. Even after being defeated and scattered, they could regroup again after some time.
Such places could not be conquered by force alone; they required pacification.
The court would certainly have anticipated such situations. Frontier garrisons were always necessary, but once matters reached this stage, so many troops would no longer be required, nor would it be appropriate to keep a general of Ding Chun’s stature stationed there. It would be a waste of talent.
And once Ding Chun returned, his former subordinates would naturally follow. The blank promise Emperor Tianshou had made earlier would then have to be fulfilled.
Before the year’s end…
Not bad. A little late, but it allowed him more time to prepare thoroughly rather than changing course at the last moment.
Meng Xizhao realized that his patience toward himself had been somewhat mistaken.
Previously, his plans had always been on a three-year or five-year scale. Yet now, in just a year and a half, he was already becoming impatient.
One more glance at that fool, and his head would start to ache.
He let out a long breath, looking somewhat absent-minded. Zhan Buhui, unable to decipher his thoughts, asked, “Do you want General Ding to return to the capital earlier?”
Meng Xizhao came back to himself and shook his head. “No. Let the war proceed naturally. Follow the general’s arrangements. My matters are not urgent.”
Your matters?
Zhan Buhui almost asked, but after some thought, he swallowed the question.
He picked up the tea again—still something he did not enjoy—and took another quiet sip.
The brilliant protagonist who once shone in the book was, in front of Meng Xizhao, just a young, taciturn general. At times, Meng Xizhao even wondered whether he had altered not only his path to greatness, but also his temperament. The Zhan Buhui before him and the one in the book no longer seemed like the same person.
It was as if, without that catastrophic turning point, his personality had been fixed in this quiet, restrained form—calm, sparing with words, silent as gold. His later brilliance on the battlefield had only partially revealed itself there; once off the battlefield, he remained this silent, reserved figure.
Meng Xizhao was not a psychologist. He could not understand why this change had occurred. Scratching his head, he decided to let it go and shifted to another topic.
“Do you still remember someone named Ping Fu?”
Zhan Buhui looked at him. “Who is Ping Fu?”
Meng Xizhao was not surprised. It had been many years.
“General Ping’s third son. Ping Sanlang. You used to live in the same alley. Don’t you remember him at all?”
Zhan Buhui paused, thought carefully, and then a faint memory surfaced.
“Ping Sanlang… are you talking about that sickly one? The one who always had to be carried around in a sedan chair? The families around mine were all martial households. He was the only one like that.”
Meng Xizhao was slightly startled. “He was frail?”
Zhan Buhui hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe he just liked riding in sedans. Our families had no dealings with the Ping household, and my father wasn’t close with General Ping either.”
Meng Xizhao let out an “oh” and lowered his gaze, deep in thought. After a moment, he asked curiously, “The Ping family moved to Mingzhou Prefecture in Tian Shou Year Two. You were only three years old then—yet you still remember all this?”
“I remember things early,” Zhan Buhui said simply.
After a pause, he added, “Now that I think about it, we really didn’t see much of their family after that.”
“But their ancestral home was in the capital, and their estates were all here. They should have returned a few times,” Meng Xizhao said.
Zhan Buhui considered this. “They did return. In the twelfth month of Tian Shou Year Five, General Ping came back to report on his duties and even spent the New Year here.”
The reason he remembered this so clearly was because that was the last New Year he ever spent in peace.
The warmth and joy of that year surfaced in his mind, leaving an indescribable feeling in his chest.
Meng Xizhao knew none of this. He quietly counted on his fingers, and suddenly his eyes lit up. Leaning forward, he asked urgently, “Then think carefully—did Ping Sanlang come back with them?”
Zhan Buhui looked at him oddly. “He did. Otherwise, how would I remember him being carried out in a sedan chair? I was young then and spoke rudely, called him a sickly ghost, and my mother even punished me for it.”
At first, his memory had been vague, but now it became clearer and clearer. He even corrected himself, “Actually, it was probably around then that he became frail. I can’t really remember what he was like before that. Sorry, I must have mixed it up earlier.”
Meng Xizhao pressed his lips together, barely holding back a laugh.
As for the Ping family’s general affairs, those could be found in official records. But details like this required asking old neighbors.
Grand Concubine Gan entered the palace in the seventh month of Tian Shou Year Two and passed away in the eighth month of Tian Shou Year Four. At most, she had been in the palace for just over two years. By the twelfth month of Tian Shou Year Five, she had already been dead for over a year. It was likely only then that General Ping, thinking Emperor Tianshou no longer saw their family as a threat, finally relaxed and brought his family back to the capital for the New Year.
As for why Ping Sanlang looked sickly…
Perhaps it was travel fatigue, perhaps he was born weak. Whatever the reason, in Meng Xizhao’s mind, it no longer mattered. In his view, the boy had already followed General Ping into his next life—he was simply someone who had died of heartbreak and emotional collapse!
Zhan Buhui noticed Meng Xizhao’s mouth twitching, as if he wanted to laugh but was holding it back. By the time Meng Xizhao came back to himself, Zhan Buhui had already been looking at him strangely for quite a while.
Meng Xizhao quickly composed himself, smoothing his robes even though there were no wrinkles. After a brief pause, he looked up seriously.
“Governor Su has already been exonerated.”
Zhan Buhui recalled the widely known corruption case from the seventh month and simply responded with an “Mm.”
Meng Xizhao met his eyes, his voice suddenly carrying a restrained intensity and determination.
“Very soon, General Zhan will also be cleared of wrongdoing.”
But contrary to what Meng Xizhao expected, Zhan Buhui did not show any emotional reaction. He merely paused, then gave another calm “Mm.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
He looked at him strangely. “Why are you so calm? You don’t believe me?”
Zhan Buhui immediately shook his head. “No, I believe you. I just…”
He hesitated briefly, then gave a faint smile.
“Since the day you became Minister of the Court of Diplomatic Reception, I have always believed you. Whatever you want to accomplish, you will surely achieve it. You care about the world, uphold justice, and face difficulties head-on. You are willing to seek justice for wronged souls who have nothing to do with you. All unrest—since the day we first met—I have already experienced it. Now, all I feel is emotion. It has all become just one thought: this day has finally come.”
He raised his teacup.
“There is no wine, so I will use tea instead. Meng Xizhao, thank you.”
He finished the remaining half cup in one gulp, set the empty cup down, and smiled again.
But looking at him, Meng Xizhao’s earlier excitement gradually sank.
He had thought that once vengeance and injustice were resolved, Zhan Buhui would finally step into a life of freedom and satisfaction. But that was only his assumption. He was not Zhan Buhui—the one who had suffered wrongful accusations and endured loss. Even if injustice was cleared, time lost and warmth faded could never be restored.