Under normal circumstances, any disturbance within the palace would quickly reach Grand Tutor Gan.
After so many years moving freely in and out of the palace, he had planted countless informants. Most eunuchs and palace maids required no bribery—they willingly pledged loyalty to him. As for the more reserved ones, a little goodwill paired with generous gold and silver would win over ninety percent of them.
But there were two exceptions.
One type: the smooth talkers who promised everything but delivered nothing.
The other: the unyielding, incorruptible sort.
The former was represented by Qin Feimang.
The latter—Wen Shiji.
Qin Feimang was manageable. He read the wind well and avoided offending powerful figures. Even if he could not be fully controlled, he would still extend small favors.
Wen Shiji, however, was different. He was utterly impervious—neither bribes nor pressure worked. He obeyed only the Emperor’s orders, stubborn as a mule.
He was already thirty-three, yet had never married. At his age, most men would already be arranging marriages for their children.
But the reason wasn’t his personality—it was the Emperor. The Emperor relied heavily on him and feared that marriage might give him personal ties and independent thoughts. So he ordered him to remain unmarried.
And Wen Shiji, absurdly enough, accepted the command without a single complaint.
Others might obey outwardly but drown their frustration in drink afterward, their families weeping over such an unjust decree.
But not him.
He accepted it completely.
…Such blind loyalty.
Grand Tutor Gan had long since given up trying to win him over.
Yet at times like this, he couldn’t help but feel deep regret.
Word soon came from the palace: not long after entering, Wen Shiji had assembled a team and left again on urgent business.
What was he doing? What matter was so pressing that the Emperor summoned him the moment he awoke?
For someone used to having full visibility within the palace, this sudden blindness made Grand Tutor Gan deeply uneasy.
Yet in his own household, no one shared his concern.
His sons and grandsons dismissed his worries, even laughing. “You’re overthinking it. What does Wen Shiji’s task have to do with our family?”
They saw nothing unusual in the Emperor refusing to see him. After all, the Emperor had just survived a brush with death—wasn’t it natural for him to be too weak to receive visitors?
Only their father, they said, was imagining problems.
Grand Tutor Gan: “…………”
He wanted to lose his temper—but he lacked the energy.
After thinking it over, he reluctantly admitted they might have a point. The Emperor was known for his unpredictable moods, yet he had always treated the Gan family with consistent favor.
Perhaps… he really was growing old.
Ever since being outmaneuvered by the Princess of Chu, he had become overly anxious.
Hmph. He would rest at home for a few days. Once both he and the Emperor recovered, he would return to lodge his complaints.
A mere widow—how dare she show him such arrogance?
That same day, Meng Xizhao, still irritated by the Crown Prince, returned home early. With nothing to do, he simply went to bed.
Because he had slept early, he woke early the next day.
The Winter Solstice had passed, yet dawn still did not break until the hour of Chen. At this moment, the sky remained pitch black.
Cui Ye parted his lips. He already knew things had gone badly wrong, but after nearly a full day and night without sleep, and with the person he loved—someone he had never guarded himself against—standing right in front of him, his mind struggled to function. In the end, he could only answer on instinct:
“It was me. I bit my tongue and faked it.”
Meng Xizhao asked, “The divine physician told you there were three prohibitions during detoxification. What were they?”
Cui Ye: “…First, avoid heavy tonics. Second, avoid great anger. Third, avoid injury.”
Meng Xizhao glared at him. “You knew that, and you still did this?!”
Cui Ye looked at him silently. After a long pause, he cautiously pointed out, “But Second Young Master… biting my tongue doesn’t really count as an injury, does it?”
Meng Xizhao slowly lifted his eyelids, and his voice rose in even greater fury: “You still dare to argue with me?!”
Cui Ye: “…………”
Outside the door, Yu Fulan and Zhang Shuogong exchanged a glance, then quietly turned their heads away.
They did not mean to eavesdrop, but the wooden palace did not insulate sound very well—and besides, Meng Xizhao was in the middle of a temper. His voice was not exactly subtle.
Yu Fulan had not intended to say anything, but after listening for a while, he could not help defending Cui Ye: “When the physician said ‘injury,’ he meant serious bodily harm. His Highness only bit his tongue to make things more convincing—just a little blood at the tip, nothing serious. Who goes through life without bleeding a bit? In dry weather, people even get nosebleeds.”
After speaking, Yu Fulan felt his stance was a bit uncomfortable and was about to shift when he suddenly sensed something. Turning his head, he saw Zhang Shuogong staring at him with a look that clearly said: Are you out of your mind?
Yu Fulan: “…”
He snapped, “What kind of look is that?!”
Zhang Shuogong immediately shot back, “What kind of brain is that?! You think everyone is like you—bleeding all over the place and no one cares? His Highness’s blood is worth more than your entire body’s! He’s already in weak health—taking even a drop of blood from his tongue is like taking the blood from your heart! Not only are you not persuading him, you’re actually encouraging this nonsense. You’ve got some nerve!”
Yu Fulan paused for a second—not angry, but suddenly pointing at Zhang Shuogong with delight. “Ah-ha! You called His Highness King Zhou—I heard that! Once Lord Meng leaves, I’m going straight to report you!”
Zhang Shuogong: “…………”
A careless slip.
There was no need to elaborate on the chaos, submission, and frantic appeasement on the Crown Prince’s side.
That night, Emperor Tianshou, with more than a dozen needles still stuck in his head, finally stirred awake. The moment he opened his eyes, he realized his entire body was weak, and his right hand was numb—he could barely lift it.
Seeing him awake, the dozens of imperial physicians were nearly moved to tears of joy. After another round of frantic activity, Huanning Hall finally quieted down around midnight.
The two chancellors and the Grand Princess of Chu had already departed. Of the thirty physicians, only the two most skilled remained; the rest had gone back to burn incense and thank the heavens for sparing their lives. Consort Su Ruocun and the other palace women, after shedding a flood of tears, had also been dismissed by Emperor Tianshou. Only Qin Feimang, the one he trusted most, remained to recount everything that had happened during the day and night he had been unconscious.
When he heard that the Crown Prince had worried himself sick enough to cough up blood, Emperor Tianshou showed no reaction.
When he heard that Su Ruocun had tirelessly attended to him, he still showed no reaction.
When he heard that the Grand Princess of Chu had stepped forward decisively to stabilize the palace, he remained unmoved.
But when he heard that Grand Preceptor Gan had rushed into the palace last night, been sent away, returned again this morning only to be sent away once more, and then had come yet again before he awoke—only to leave of his own accord—
At last, Emperor Tianshou’s eyes, which had seemed lifeless since he woke, trembled slightly.
He had not spoken a single word since regaining consciousness. When he finally did, he realized even speaking had become difficult.
“Send… send him back!”
“And bring… those poems… to me!”
Qin Feimang blinked, utterly unable to understand what kind of fatal content those poems contained—first angering the emperor into illness, and now, even in this state, still being demanded again.
After a brief pause, he bowed deeply. “Yes. This servant will fetch them at once.”
If the imperial physicians had been present, they would likely have stopped him from bringing the very thing that had caused the emperor’s collapse, and would certainly have advised against it. But unfortunately—they were not.
Before long, the poems that had been gathered and stored after Emperor Tianshou fainted were brought in.
Most palace attendants were illiterate, to prevent them from leaking secrets. Qin Feimang, as the head eunuch, could not be the same—but he knew well that sometimes ignorance was safety. So within the palace, anything written, he avoided reading if he could. Even the Analects, he would not spare an extra glance.
He respectfully placed the box before Emperor Tianshou. Because his right hand was useless, after several failed attempts, the emperor could only use his left hand with a darkened expression. When Qin Feimang tried to help, he was stopped—as though accepting help would be an unbearable humiliation.
At last, after retrieving the yellowed letter, Emperor Tianshou struggled to sit up, leaning against a cushion, and—almost like self-inflicted torture—continued reading the poem.
The illness had drained much of his vitality. Even anger would not come easily now. Instead, he could look at the letter with a cold clarity.
“Jade terraces” referred to the celestial palace—but here, it stood for the imperial palace.
“Welcoming letter” was the final step in the six rites of marriage, written in advance and recited by the groom on the wedding day.
“Brocade splendor” referred to the wedding dress—brides would begin embroidering it a year in advance, and the wealthier the family, the more lavish it would be. Calling it “brocade splendor” was perfectly natural.
“Three stars at the door” meant an auspicious wedding date—the chosen day had long since passed.
Like the three stars, wild geese and peach blossoms all symbolized union between man and woman.
Emperor Tianshou’s expression remained calm—but his heart felt as though a great hole had been torn open, with cold wind whistling endlessly through it.
Every line—every single line—was like a blade stabbing into his heart.
He still clung to a sliver of doubt: perhaps it was not real, perhaps this was not written by Gan Jingyue.
But the handwriting—he knew it all too well. And the content pointed too clearly.
Especially the six words: “This bond was a mistake; wolves and jackals are vile.”
Two years of tenderness, day and night of intimacy—he had even considered killing the Empress for her—and this was how she described him? “Wolf. Jackal.”
If it was a mistake—why had she not said so?!
Wait—
Emperor Tianshou’s eyes suddenly went blank.
Gan Guifei had not said nothing. When she first entered the palace, she had been cold toward him, her gaze almost like that toward an enemy. Later, she changed, and he had been overjoyed, discarding all memories of her earlier indifference.
Now—he remembered it all.
…So that was why?
Because her heart already belonged to someone else—was that why she had treated him with such coldness? And the affection that came later—was it only because the Ping family had been driven out of Ying Tian Prefecture, leaving her with no hope, forcing her to feign compliance?
The poem did not say this.
But in his mind, Emperor Tianshou completed the story—until it felt perfectly logical.
Seeing his useless right hand trembling again, Qin Feimang finally felt he could not ignore it any longer. He hurried forward, putting on a display of loyalty. “Your Majesty, your hand—”
Only then did Emperor Tianshou notice his trembling hand. Reflexively, he clenched it—but it remained weak and limp.
Anger. Humiliation. A blazing fury burning through him.
Taking a deep breath, he issued his command:
“Summon Wen Shiji.”
“Investigate! Turn Ying Tian Prefecture upside down if you must—find the truth for me!”
Qin Feimang glanced at his nearly ferocious expression and dared not provoke him. “Yes.”
Grand Preceptor Gan, waiting outside, was driven away once more—but this time, by imperial order.
A deep unease rose in his heart.
And just then, Commander of the Palace Guard Wen Shiji arrived. Without even glancing at Grand Preceptor Gan, he strode straight into Huanning Hall.
The old man’s face grew even more troubled.
But there was nothing he could do.
He could only return home in anxious uncertainty.
After learning why Wen Shiji had come, the young prince was nearly scared out of his wits. He immediately ordered someone to find that hanger-on, but lately Ying Tian Prefecture had been in turmoil—the poetry society had been shut down, Sang Fanyu had fallen ill, and he himself had not gone there for several days. He had only met that hanger-on near the poetry society to begin with, so in the past few days, they had not seen each other at all.
When Wen Shiji personally led men to search, they learned from a neighbor that the hanger-on had more than just the young prince as a client. He had also been keeping company with another young nobleman—a hotheaded youth who had written a satirical poem mocking Emperor Tianshou. That poem had been polished by the same hanger-on. After the poetry society was shut down, the hanger-on figured that the young nobleman came from a powerful family and would likely be fine, but he himself might not be so lucky. So he packed up and fled to lie low.
Wen Shiji: “…………”
The veins on his forehead throbbed. He split off a team and sent them out of the city to track where the man had fled, while he himself continued with the rest, questioning the prince’s household, questioning neighbors, questioning anyone who knew that hanger-on—just to find out from which commoner the poem had originally been purchased.
Wen Shiji was exhausted. He had assumed he would first need to find the hanger-on, then the commoner, and only then the author of the poem. A process like that would take at least three days, possibly seven. And based on his observations from the night before, Emperor Tianshou could not even wait until today was over.
Most likely, he would be summoned back to the palace by afternoon—and if he reported that he had found nothing, even as Commander of the Palace Guard, he would not escape punishment.
Wen Shiji was loyal—but loyalty did not mean he did not fear pain. Frowning, he was even considering whether to carry a couple of bottles of wound medicine with him when suddenly, as if emerging from a dark tunnel into light, a new lead appeared.
They had not found the hanger-on, nor the commoner—but one neighbor remembered something the hanger-on had once said. He had claimed that Eighty-Li River was now full of opportunities to get rich. Officials from the Ministry of Works were renovating old residences there, throwing things out every day—items once used by nobles. He had even suggested the old woman go take a look and see if she could pick up a nugget of gold.
The old neighbor had clearly not been fooled. She thought the suggestion ridiculous. First, if there were anything valuable, the officials would have taken it already—whatever was discarded must be junk. Second, even if she did somehow find gold, would a poor commoner like her dare to keep it?
An old woman was still an old woman—shrewd and far-sighted, firmly believing there was no such thing as a free lunch. But not everyone was so wise. Others might very well have gone scavenging.
With this in mind, Wen Shiji headed straight for Eighty-Li River.
Just as Jin Zhu was about to step out to check the accounts, she was startled. Wen Shiji rode in front, his guards behind him, all mounted on tall horses galloping through the inner city where riding was normally restricted. They thundered past her, and only after they turned the corner did she press a hand to her chest.
Now, Jin Zhu herself had attendants—Meng Xizhao had hired two maids specifically for her.
One of the young maids, utterly obedient, supported her arm and asked with concern, “Lady Wen, are you alright?”
Yes—Jin Zhu’s surname was Wen. Before entering the broker’s house, her name had been Wen Shubo, a name that carried her parents’ modest wish: that their daughter would have grain to eat and clothes to wear.
As for why they did not choose something more luxurious—it was because at the time, the family had been fleeing famine. They could never have imagined that the daughter they had struggled to raise would one day encounter such fortune.
The broker, however, had thought the name too rustic and lacking in refinement, and had changed it to Jin Zhu. As for Yin Liu, that was her original name. Madam Meng had liked her composure when facing noblewomen and thought her temperament steady. Her name also paired well with Jin Zhu, so she hired her too.
Jin Zhu smiled and shook her head, even patting the maid’s hand to show closeness. As expected, the maid’s eyes lit up.
They boarded the carriage, and soon it rolled away. None of them paid any further attention to the sudden appearance of the palace guards. Even if the maid had noticed, seeing Jin Zhu’s calm demeanor, she dismissed it.
…
Wen Shiji searched through all the residences under renovation around Eighty-Li River. There were quite a few, after all—Emperor Tianshou had recently granted many rewards. But when his subordinates reported which families each residence belonged to, something stirred in Wen Shiji’s mind.
His gaze locked onto the residence of General Shang.
If he remembered correctly—that residence had originally belonged to the Ping family.
In his early years, Wen Shiji had served under Yu Nian. He had not been present when Consort Gan first entered the palace, but he had witnessed her death, the emperor’s grief, the series of irrational decisions that followed, and later, the Ping family’s alleged collusion with pirates that provoked imperial fury.
The emperor had ordered him to investigate the poem—but had not said who wrote it, nor what was wrong with it. He had not even let Wen Shiji read it clearly, only allowing him a brief glance.
Wen Shiji might be a tool—but he could still think.
And now, a startling possibility was forming in his mind.
After a moment of silence, Wen Shiji changed his plan. Instead of bringing all his men inside, he selected two he trusted, then dismounted.