When the Crown Prince and Meng Xizhao had previously returned in triumph, the Emperor Tianshou hadn’t summoned them into the palace. He had dismissed them at the gates.
This time, however, things were different. The emperor’s mood had not been affected, and he was eager to display his benevolence toward meritorious officials. Thus, the moment Ding Chun and his forces entered Ying Tian, he sent Yan Shunying to receive them at the Donghua Gate. Meanwhile, palace attendants rushed out to notify all officials to enter the palace together and witness the rewarding of the army.
It was well known that when the emperor scolded or punished someone, he liked to gather a large audience. But to mobilize so many people just to praise and reward—this was rare. Though puzzled, everyone obediently changed into official attire, donned their hats, and lined up in the waiting court.
Meng Xizhao had received the news earlier than anyone else and was better prepared. While others hadn’t even eaten lunch, he had already finished two flatbreads. Feeling a bit full, he turned his head aside and let out a quiet burp.
The officials behind him, still hungry: “…………”
Today’s main figure was Ding Chun; everyone else was merely there to accompany. Standing below, Meng Xizhao listened as Qin Feimang read aloud the lengthy imperial edict.
Ding Chun, whose rank was already as high as it could go, could not be promoted further. As compensation, the Emperor Tianshou granted him the honorary title of Military Commissioner, along with a marquisate complete with its own fief.
As for the rest, all were promoted according to merit—some by a full rank, others by half. They received generous rewards of gold and silver, along with land and tenant households.
Only the matter Meng Jiuyu had proposed earlier—granting residences—was deemed impractical by the emperor. With so many recipients, Ying Tian simply didn’t have enough space. Thus, only the top five were granted estates. However, since the emperor still wanted Zhan Buxiu to serve him loyally, he granted him a residence as well, even though he otherwise did not qualify.
The generals in the hall had removed their armor and weapons, but not the aura of bloodshed that clung to them. For many present, this was their first time seeing so many frontier commanders gathered together. The oppressive sense of violence in Chongzheng Hall seemed to rise steadily.
For scholars who spent their days composing poetry and admiring flowers and the moon, this was instinctively unsettling.
When scholars schemed against one another, even if they sought someone’s life, it required careful planning over years. But for warriors, taking a life could be done in an instant—a single stroke to cut open a warm throat.
It was a dimensional gap.
Many frowned, already considering how to persuade the Emperor Tianshou to send these rough men away—whether to guard the borders or be stationed in provincial commands, anything so long as they didn’t remain in Ying Tian.
Meng Xizhao frowned as well, but for a different reason: he had not heard the emperor mention Shang Xiguan’s name.
At that moment, Shang Xiguan stood in the front row. Though he still wore a smile, as if sharing in the army’s glory, even Xie Yuan could tell that his expression was far from pleasant.
Ding Chun had been named Grand General Who Pacifies the State, ranking just below him. Now the emperor had also granted him a marquisate, along with several Military Commissioner titles. Shang Xiguan himself only had one such title—and had spent over a decade currying favor to obtain it. Yet Ding Chun had commanded troops as a leading general for only five years and now held three.
Not to mention, when all stipends were added together, Ding Chun’s income now exceeded that of Shang Xiguan, the Cavalry General.
With the emperor recently considering a campaign against Dali, as long as warfare continued, Ding Chun would always have a role to play. If he won a few more victories, would Shang Xiguan’s position not be at risk?
Shang Xiguan’s expression darkened. Meng Xizhao watched him for a while, then shifted his gaze to the back of his father’s head.
Had the old man succeeded or not?
It was as if Meng Jiuyu had eyes on the back of his head. He turned, cast Meng Xizhao a light glance, then calmly turned back again.
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Soon enough, he didn’t need to guess. After court was dismissed, the Emperor Tianshou summoned Shang Xiguan to remain behind—likely having noticed his expression and intending to balance favor with warning.
After standing in court for so long, the two flatbreads had been fully digested. Feeling refreshed in both body and spirit, Meng Xizhao flicked his sleeves and left for home in a bright mood.
…………
Contrary to Meng Xizhao’s expectations, when the Emperor Tianshou summoned Shang Xiguan, there was no warning—only favor.
After all, Shang Xiguan was a favored minister. He had spent years flattering the emperor, and unlike Qiu Suming, who was often away, Shang Xiguan remained in Ying Tian year-round, always available at the emperor’s call.
The Emperor Tianshou had just executed Qiu Suming. Even though no one openly protested, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that while they kept silent, they must all be thinking the same thing—that he was heartless, killing even a long-serving minister without hesitation.
Ordinarily, he might not have cared. But now was a critical moment. He was truly coveting the land of Dali, and he did not want even the slightest mishap.
Moreover, he had a serious misunderstanding about Shang Xiguan. He believed that as the Cavalry General, Shang Xiguan held great authority among the military ranks—that whatever he said, the others would follow. Even if the unity wasn’t quite what it had been in Zhan Shenyou’s time, it couldn’t be far off.
Fearing that Shang Xiguan might disrupt his plans, and also wanting to placate an old minister, the emperor summoned him in private. Not only did he reward him with a large sum of gold and silver, he also bestowed a piece of his own calligraphy—and, of course, the residence Meng Jiuyu had previously suggested.
In front of the emperor, Shang Xiguan wore an expression of deep gratitude, carefully holding the imperial calligraphy as he left. But once he got into his carriage, he tossed it aside in disdain.
The emperor’s handwriting wasn’t even as good as his own. A piece of calligraphy that couldn’t be eaten or spent—who would care for that? Worse, once he brought it home, he’d have to set up a special shrine just to enshrine it. What a hassle.
The gold and silver, however, improved his mood somewhat. After all, no one ever complained about having too much money.
Upon returning home, Shang Xiguan ordered his servants to prepare a shrine for the calligraphy and store away the gold and silver. As for the newly granted residence—once the deed arrived, he would send a couple of people to tidy it up. If it could be rented out, then rent it; if not, have someone clean it monthly. Otherwise, it could be left alone.
At this time, there was no concept of real estate speculation. While property in Ying Tian was indeed expensive, people preferred accumulating shops rather than houses. If he could, Shang Xiguan would rather sell off his excess residences—but anything granted by the emperor could never be sold.
Strictly speaking, even renting it out was somewhat improper, though most people overlooked such details. After all, high-ranking officials often owned multiple properties—no one could possibly split themselves into pieces just to occupy them all out of gratitude for imperial favor.
The calligraphy Shang Xiguan had taken with him on the spot. The gold and silver, however, were personally selected later by Qin Feimang from the imperial treasury and delivered to his residence by palace attendants. As for the residence, Qin Feimang assigned a palace eunuch to notify the Ministry of Works to select a suitable estate and deliver the title deeds to General Shang.
Land grants fell under the Ministry of Revenue, while the allocation of residences was the responsibility of the Ministry of Works. The emperor’s grand reward for the army had also sparked his enthusiasm to construct a “Temple of Martial Merit,” which likewise fell under their jurisdiction. Minister Jian of the Ministry of Works was now overwhelmed, discussing with his subordinates where to build it.
The location couldn’t be too prime—otherwise the emperor might suspect him of currying favor with Ding Chun and the others. Nor could it be too poor—lest the emperor suspect he was being perfunctory in carrying out orders.
Minister Jian: “…………”
Being a minister truly wasn’t easy. Before, he had only dealt with nobles. Now, he was dealing with the Emperor Tianshou—who alone was more troublesome than all the nobles combined.
As a result, the matter of selecting the site was delegated downward.
The Vice Minister took on the task. With a palace attendant waiting anxiously nearby, he immediately brought out a map of Ying Tian and hesitated over several vacant plots.
At that moment, someone returned processed documents. Seeing the vice minister unable to decide, he stepped forward to take a look.
Zang He said, “Why not choose this location, my lord?”
He pointed to an empty estate near the Eighty-Li River. “This place has been vacant for eight years. It was originally an excellent location, and quite spacious. Giving it to just anyone might attract attention, but granting it to General Shang would be appropriate. I happened to pass by recently—the main gate shows some weathering, but the walls and buildings remain intact. With a bit of refurbishment, it could be presented properly without much expense.”
The Vice Minister of Works: “……”
Refurbishment?
He had been hesitating precisely because he didn’t want to handle refurbishment.
But since the residence was an imperial gift, it couldn’t be handed over in a shabby state. That would reflect poorly on the emperor.
The newer estates had already been allocated by Minister Jian to meritorious generals. The remaining ones were all somewhat worn. If he wanted to avoid repairs, the only option would be to build a new one from scratch.
…Forget it. That would cost even more.
Better to follow Zang He’s suggestion—repair this one and give it to Shang Xiguan.
It was a minor matter. Now that it was decided, the vice minister ordered Zang He to retrieve the property deeds while he instructed his subordinates to assess the renovation costs.
In theory, the expenses should come from the emperor’s personal treasury. But unless the vice minister wanted to lose his position, he would have to charge it to the Ministry of Works’ own budget.
Winter days grew dark early. Meng Xizhao had dinner at the Secretariat before returning home under the night sky. As he entered his bedroom, he heard voices coming from the north side. He paused, then quietly stepped out. Though the high walls blocked his view, he could see flickering firelight spilling over.
He watched for a moment, then turned back.
Jinzhu followed behind him. Once Meng Xizhao had removed his outer robe and sat down, she brought him a cup of hot tea.
Holding the tea, in an unusually good mood, he said to her, “I feel like I’m still not full. You all must be hungry too—how about we eat again?”
Jinzhu: “……”
With winter setting in and his mind constantly at work, her young master’s appetite had grown noticeably. It seemed he was preparing to put on some winter weight.
Well, so be it. Even the Crown Prince didn’t mind—why should she worry so much?
Besides, ever since suffering so much in Nanzhao, their young master had grown noticeably thinner. Even if he put on a little weight now, it still wouldn’t compare to the days when he lived in comfort at the Secretariat, idly teasing cats and dogs.
Half an hour later, rich aromas drifted out from Meng Xizhao’s quarters, stirring the appetites of the craftsmen working late into the night applying fresh lacquer nearby.
Craftsman A: “Smells amazing.”
Craftsman B: “Stop looking. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can go home.”
That made sense—so they worked even harder.
Their progress moved from the outside inward, so none of them knew that at this very moment, in the southern courtyard of the inner residence, beneath the bed of a certain young master—or perhaps a young lady—there lay a small, delicate box. Inside it rested a single old sheet of paper, quiet and unassuming, yet capable of stirring a storm across all of Ying Tian.
…
＊
In the eighth year of Tianshou, the Ping family had been exposed for colluding with the enemy. That same year, they were executed in Mingzhou Prefecture—the entire family beheaded, their heads hung on the city walls as both a warning to pirates and a lesson to others.
After the Zhan family’s downfall, they moved away from their old residence. What no one knew was that the Ping family had returned once afterward. They didn’t come back every year, only when they had the chance, gathering here from time to time.
Because they treated this place as a secondary residence, they never rented it out, nor did they take everything with them. Items that were difficult to move or might still be useful were left behind.
For example, neatly arranged bedding still lay on the bed—though unused for so long that it had torn open, cotton stuffing spilling out. In the kitchen, there were jars of rice and water; the rice had long since gone moldy, and the water had completely dried up.
Everywhere bore traces of life once lived. Yet as time pressed forward, those traces had transformed into something almost absurd—a hollow ruin.
The Ping family had many children. It took Meng Xizhao quite some time to identify which quarters had belonged to Ping Sanlang. Among the seven sons, Ping Sanlang had been the legitimate heir, enjoying slightly better treatment than the others, even having a courtyard of his own.
According to Qingfu’s inquiries, after his engagement to the Gan family was broken off, Ping Sanlang never married again. Though he never took a formal wife, he kept numerous concubines, maintaining relationships in both Ying Tian and Mingzhou.
He was also a frequent visitor to brothels, spending lavishly for fleeting pleasures. At first, Meng Xizhao had considered going all out—placing additional items in the box to fabricate evidence of Ping Sanlang’s romantic exploits. But he ultimately abandoned the idea. The more elaborate the setup, the more likely something would go wrong.
Since the matter was so important, Meng Xizhao didn’t trust anyone else—he insisted on doing it himself. Yinliu stood to the side, watching as he carefully placed the box beneath the bed. Then he took out the loose dust he had previously gathered from various places and, using a small handmade brush, meticulously spread it across the floor—under the bed and throughout the entire room.
For convenience, Meng Xizhao had even changed into short, fitted clothing. Yinliu wanted to help, but he refused, instructing her only to watch for any spots he might have missed.
When they finally finished, Yinliu nearly bowed to him. “Young master, you are truly a master of forgery—unmatched in your craft!”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
It was meant as praise, but somehow it left him with mixed feelings.
Ignoring her, he double-checked everything. Only when he was certain there were no flaws did he have Yinliu bring over the iron cage. Inside were two mice Qingfu had caught. Opening the cage, he released them. Watching the plump little creatures scurry away, leaving behind a trail of authentic footprints, Meng Xizhao finally felt satisfied and left.
…
By the time the craftsmen finished applying lacquer outside and prepared to work on the interior, they first needed to clear out the clutter. While working methodically, one of them suddenly let out a surprised “Huh?”
No one noticed that the dust had only been arranged days ago. As for the mouse tracks, they were nothing unusual—any old house would have signs of vermin. If anything, it would be strange not to.
No one sensed anything amiss. They all gathered around the finely made box. When one of them opened it and took out the paper inside, the craftsmen—whose literacy extended only to basic reading—looked at one another.
What does it say?
…
While this discovery remained unnoticed, another uproar had already begun in Ying Tian.
The Emperor Tianshou had just rewarded the army, with banquets set to last three days. Before they had even concluded, somehow news had leaked—that he intended to attack Dali. The rumor had spread all the way to the pleasure quarters.
Across Baihua Street, word spread from ten to a hundred. Now, everyone knew. Even foreign envoys were making inquiries in roundabout ways, asking whether the emperor truly had such intentions.
But this alone did not enrage him.
What truly angered him was that these commoners—these scholars—had dared to form an anonymous poetry society among the courtesans of Baihua Street. Using historical allegory, they mocked him for waging unnecessary wars and burdening the people. Some even went so far as to claim that his desire to attack Dali was madness—like a toad lusting after a swan.
The Emperor Tianshou was so furious his head rang. On the spot, he ordered Qin Feimang to dismantle this anonymous poetry society and track down the authors of these treasonous verses.
But anonymity was the very essence of the society.
Courtesans, low in status and drifting from place to place, relied on one another for survival—and for passing the time. Especially those who had gained fame; the leading courtesans all knew each other and gathered frequently. Such gatherings were considered refined occasions. They would even bring along favored patrons, who in turn regarded it as an honor.
When asked when this anonymous poetry society had begun, none of them could say for sure. Perhaps two or three months ago? It was Sang Fanyu, the most talented among them, who had first proposed it. Being indifferent to fame, she had grown tired of attracting flatterers. So she suggested pooling resources to purchase a quiet courtyard exclusively for the society. Within it, walls, books, and blank paper could all be used for writing poetry—any kind of poetry.
There was only one rule:
No signatures.
Yù Fulan: “…………”
Hesitating, Yù Fulan still leaned in.
…
After the “secret technique” had been passed on, he left in a daze. Mèng Xīzhāo sat in his chair, holding it in for as long as he could—but in the end, he failed. Bursting into laughter, he sprang up and dove headfirst onto the neatly made bed, rolling around several times.
Cuī Yě: “…”
He had just finished his medicine, the bitterness still lingering in his mouth. Yet at the sight, he could not help but laugh as well.
Walking over, he blocked Mèng Xīzhāo’s rolling path and looked at him as he sat up with his hair in disarray, his expression helpless. “Is it really that funny?”
The surge of emotion had passed, and Mèng Xīzhāo was no longer quite so unrestrained. Touching the corners of his lips, which still refused to settle, he said with some vexation, “I do not even know what is wrong with me. The moment I think about Wén Shìjí being played for a fool by Yù Fulan, I just cannot control myself.”
Cuī Yě: “…”
Was that not simply taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune?
He shook his head with a smile and stopped letting him dwell on it. From a hidden compartment by the head of the bed, he took out a secret letter and handed it over. “Second Brother, take a look at this.”
Mèng Xīzhāo held the letter, but his eyes kept drifting toward the compartment. “There is actually a mechanism here? When you do not have secret letters, what do you keep inside?”
Cuī Yě showed no sense of being intruded upon. Instead, he smiled openly. “Take a guess.”
Mèng Xīzhāo: “…………”
A bad feeling rose in him. Better not guess.
Opening the letter, he found only two lines written inside:
—The princess has seized power. A new emperor has been स्थापित. They seek peace.
Mèng Xīzhāo’s brows lifted on their own.
…
The conservative faction of Nánzhào was notoriously stubborn. When Luó Sàhuā fled there, she received the highest level of reception, but when it came to major decisions, they simply would not listen to her. She could only rely on the loyal soldiers she had brought with her to maneuver behind the scenes.
Three months had passed. She had finally suppressed the conservatives, yet in the end, she lacked the decisiveness to take the throne herself. Between crowning herself and propping up a puppet emperor, she chose the latter.
The Nánzhào royal family had already been wiped out by Cuī Yě. Aside from Luó Sàhuā, the rest were now living as captives in Yìngtiān Prefecture. That she could still dig out someone with blood ties to her was no small feat—this new emperor was probably related to her only in the most distant sense.
None of that mattered. Those were Nánzhào’s internal affairs. Their territory had shrunk to a mere sliver, surviving in the cracks. Any neighboring country that so much as entertained the idea could make their situation even more desperate.
Luó Sàhuā was calm enough. She could even suppress her hatred for the sake of survival. After taking control of Nánzhào, choosing to sue for peace with Qí was entirely within Mèng Xīzhāo’s expectations.
As for whether she intended to ransom Zhēn’ān Luó back at a high price, or instead pay for a temporary reprieve from Qí’s aggression—that had nothing to do with him.
Staring at the slip of paper, Mèng Xīzhāo had only one thought:
If Nánzhào surrendered and sought peace, the army would no longer need to campaign endlessly.
Which meant—they were coming back.
Pressing his lips together, he smiled faintly. Then, in front of Cuī Yě, he held the letter to a candle and burned it. Turning his head, he said, “My elder brother really ought to come see this. With you around, what is the point of him gathering intelligence on the officials? You have made him completely redundant.”
Cuī Yě replied, “It is not like that. In the future, I will remain in the shadows, and Elder Brother will stand in the open. Each has his own advantages.”
Mèng Xīzhāo: “…………”
This was the second time Cuī Yě had followed his lead and referred to his family that way.
Mèng Xīzhāo could not help glancing at him. “We are not at that stage yet. You have gotten awfully smooth at changing how you address them.”
Cuī Yě sighed. “I do not know what is wrong with me. The words just come out on their own. I cannot control it.”
Mèng Xīzhāo: “…………”
Shameless.
…
Although Cuī Yě’s intelligence network was swift, it was only faster than others by a few days. Soon enough, news of Nánzhào’s coup—of the princess wielding power behind a puppet emperor—reached the court.
At once, the court was filled with scorn. Officials mocked Nánzhào for its failing fortunes, deriding the fact that a princess had seized power, calling it a disgrace of “a hen crowing at dawn,” proof that the country was beyond saving.
Mèng Xīzhāo stood among them, saying nothing and looking at no one.
Otherwise, he feared he might start tearing into them.
If it were this bunch of useless men, faced with national ruin, they would not even know where they would die. Luó Sàhuā might have her flaws, but combined, they still would not measure up to her.
There was nothing interesting about the court session. As Prefect of Yìngtiān, he had no voice in matters concerning Nánzhào.
That was the drawback of not being part of the central ministries—too many affairs lay beyond his reach.
Xiè Yuán could speak, but he was overly cautious. Afraid that a single misstep might draw the emperor’s displeasure upon himself, his family, or the Crown Prince, he kept silent in public and instead offered private counsel to Chancellor Yán.
As for whether the chancellor listened—that was another matter entirely.
Zhān Bùxiū was even more extreme. Publicly and privately, he acted as if mute. While military officials already had little say in court, his level of silence was rare.
This reassured Shàng Xīguān and Gěng Wénjǐn. They had feared Zhān Bùxiū might be like his father—exceptional not only in battle but also in rhetoric, with a tongue as sharp as a blade, leaving other officials speechless. And as a renowned warrior, no one would dare argue with him, lest he lose his temper and strike them.
Now, it seemed their fears had been unnecessary.
…
The Emperor Tiānshòu was still clutching that sheet of paper when he suddenly collapsed from sheer rage.