By the time this imperial edict was issued, there was practically no one left in the Gan family.
Every last one of Gan Rui’s descendants had been thrown into prison. Perhaps not all of them would be sentenced to death, but in the end, those who survived would surely be few and far between.
The families once tied to the Gans by marriage had strutted arrogantly across Ying Tian Prefecture. Now, they were the ones most desperate to sever all ties.
Aside from the Ningyuan Marquis’s household, which remained relatively composed—after all, their enmity with the Gans was well known—the rest practically wished to swear to the heavens that they had never colluded with the Gan family. Even more ironically, within a single day, five women—either surnamed Gan or related to the family—were cast off by their husbands, sent back alone to their natal homes, weeping uncontrollably.
Meng Xizhao was practically delighted.
These people were truly something—just like that, they had handed him another assist.
The Tianshou Emperor was a man who valued love, and in this regard, he was especially protective of women. Whether it stemmed from chauvinism or simple idleness did not matter—since he had this inclination, Meng Xizhao intended to make use of it.
These men, in order to protect themselves, had cast aside their wives—women they had once all but worshipped. If the Emperor heard of it, how could he not be enraged?
Sure enough, when Meng Xizhao once again brought it up under the guise of telling a joke, the Emperor flew into another fury. Want to sever ties? Not a chance. And if you had nothing to hide, why act in such haste? Investigate—every single one of them must be thoroughly investigated!
Pull one radish, and out comes the dirt. For a time, only the common people in Ying Tian Prefecture could live in peace. Any household with an official lived in fear, unable to sleep, worried that while they still dreamed, the Palace Guard would kick down their doors and come to arrest them.
…
With so many cases and such overwhelming complexity, the Ministry of Justice and the Imperial City Bureau were packed to bursting. Even Meng Xizhao could not remain idle—he and Judicial Commissioner Cheng were both temporarily transferred to assist with interrogations. Every day, documents bearing the mark of capital punishment were issued.
As for Gan Rui, before all these cases could even be concluded, the Tianshou Emperor had already driven him out of Ying Tian Prefecture.
The evidence was abundant and conclusive. At a glance, the Emperor knew that sooner or later, it would all lead back to Gan Rui. Court officials might oppose the execution of a high-ranking elder minister—but only if he had not committed grave crimes.
Clearly, Gan Rui did not fall into that category.
The Emperor had known him for many years—without exaggeration, he had spent far more time with Gan Rui than with Consort Gan. He knew Gan Rui well. He had always understood that the man was not truly good—only that he had believed Gan Rui was harsh to outsiders, yet utterly loyal to him, the Emperor.
But the evidence laid before him said otherwise.
…
It was like those days not long ago, when he had waited for Wen Shiji to return with the investigation into Consort Gan. His heart had been filled with fear and tension, because he had already anticipated that things would not turn out as he hoped.
Closing his eyes, the Tianshou Emperor no longer wished to involve himself in affairs. His energy could not keep up. The cases against the Gan family were all being handled by the court officials; he scarcely intervened.
Yet on this particular day, he suddenly wrote an imperial edict—without even informing the two Grand Chancellors—and had Qin Feimang deliver it directly to Wen Shiji, ordering him to personally oversee Gan Rui and his wife’s departure from the city.
He wanted to leave each other some dignity. No matter what, he wished for Gan Rui to live out his old age in peace.
But he was also furious—he believed himself betrayed. So he forbade Gan Rui from taking any wealth, any children. Even servants—only two were allowed.
In his own mind, he had already shown the utmost benevolence.
Yet when Gan Rui received the edict, he had not even managed to rise to his feet before his eyes went blank—and he spat out a mouthful of dark blood.
His wife, standing beside him, was somewhat younger but still over sixty. Trembling, she supported her frail husband, crying so hard she could barely catch her breath.
But Wen Shiji, tasked with escorting them, merely crouched down, felt Gan Rui’s pulse, judged that he was not about to die immediately, and then stood up coldly, ordering them to pack at once.
He was acting in accordance with the edict. It said nothing about rescinding the order if Gan Rui fell ill. And when he had left, he clearly remembered the Emperor’s expression—angry.
As for the complexity beneath that anger, the pain hidden within—it was not something he could perceive. Not everyone possessed Meng Xizhao’s ability to read expressions.
And so, amid the swirling snow, the road ahead obscured by the storm, Gan Rui lay in the carriage, barely clinging to life. His wife wept beside him, while the two servants accompanying them back to Caizhou silently shed tears.
To an outsider, it might have seemed as though they were escorting a coffin home.
Gan Rui felt the jolting of the crude carriage, suppressing the metallic taste rising in his throat. He stared blankly at the curtain blown open by the wind, at the howling snow that rushed inside.
He had thought he would never return to Caizhou in this lifetime.
Seven years ago, when his mother passed away, he had not gone back. He had been the Grand Preceptor—the indispensable Grand Preceptor to the Emperor, second only to one and above ten thousand. All under heaven bowed before him. Who would care about returning to some insignificant place like Caizhou, to perform the laughable act of returning home in glory?
Caizhou…
At this moment, the Emperor was sending him back there to say: fallen leaves return to their roots.
Ordering his execution would damage the Emperor’s reputation. So instead, he chose this method—leaving him to fend for himself in his hometown, to live or die as fate would have it.
Knowing full well how cruel it was—and yet doing it anyway.
Just as expected, Cui Yan was no different from his father, his grandfather, even his great-grandfather.
He had spoken so often of how much he loved Gan Jingyue, how much he trusted him, how much he valued the Gan family. And now?!
On the basis of some baseless accusation, he had destroyed over a hundred lives in the Gan family!
Cui Yan.
Cui Yan—
CUI YAN!!!
You—!!!
The metallic taste in Gan Rui’s throat could no longer be suppressed. Lying at the innermost part of the carriage, shielded from the wind by his wife’s body, he suddenly let out a roar filled with blood and tears.
“Beast! Cui Yan, you wretched beast!!!”
That shout was like a thunderclap. When it rang out, his wife’s eyes flew wide open in shock. The servants outside, along with Wen Shiji riding alongside, all heard it—the servants were terrified, while Wen Shiji frowned.
He quickly dismounted, stopped the carriage driver, and yanked open the curtain. Calling out the Emperor’s name and cursing him as a beast—no matter what the edict said, Wen Shiji could not simply let him go like this.
But when he pulled the curtain aside, he saw Lady Gan shaking Gan Rui’s body like a madwoman, her sobs growing even more grief-stricken. Gan Rui’s eyes were still wide open—but his breath had already stopped.
He had died with his eyes open.
…………
After finishing his snow-viewing, Meng Xizhao was about to head back inside to warm himself by the fire. Yinliu was just asking what he wanted for dinner when Qingfu came rushing back through the snow.
“Young Master! Grand Preceptor Gan—no, Gan Rui—collapsed from rage on the way out of the city. He’s already dead!”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Yinliu: “…”
That was way too fast.
Qingfu caught his breath, not noticing their subtle expressions, and continued, “Commander Wen had Lady Gan remain outside the city with the carriage and the body. He himself returned to the palace—it seems he wants to ask how this situation should be handled.”
Meng Xizhao: …right.
The man was dead, and instead of arranging anything, they left him lying in the carriage, with his wife alone keeping watch. Such meticulous execution of orders—serious to an almost absurd degree.
That said, Meng Xizhao was a little curious—how would the Tianshou Emperor handle this?
By evening, the snow had stopped.
A timely snowfall promised a good harvest. Locust plagues had been severe in recent years, but now even Ying Tian Prefecture had received such heavy snow—perhaps next year would be free of locust disasters.
The common people were overjoyed.
But in the palace, when the Tianshou Emperor heard the news, he sat stunned for a long time.
Wen Shiji, afraid of provoking him further, did not mention how Gan Rui had cursed him before dying. Even so, this alone was enough to weigh heavily on the Emperor.
It was as though his spirit had suddenly dimmed. He waved his hand, telling Wen Shiji to consult others for a decision. He was tired—he did not want to deal with such vexing matters anymore.
With no other option, Wen Shiji went to the two Grand Chancellors. In the end, the two of them and Meng Xizhao’s father discussed the matter and came up with a plan: Lady Gan would still return to her hometown, and she would be granted a few thousand taels of silver so that she could arrange Gan Rui’s funeral properly.
That would count as a respectable burial.
As for how many people would dare attend his funeral to pay their respects… that was no longer the concern of those remaining in Ying Tian Prefecture.
…………
The Qiu family had once risen and fallen together, but the Gan family was large and already divided into branches—it could not be handled the same way. In short, those who deserved death were executed, those who deserved punishment were punished. Aside from the one who had abducted a civilian woman—whom the Emperor held a particular grudge against—the rest were dealt with according to the law.
During this time, everyone was busy. Meng Xizhao was occupied assisting with case judgments, while the Crown Prince was busy networking with various factions.
That was indeed the case—those who had once hesitated were no longer waiting. They had finally made up their minds to pledge allegiance to the Crown Prince.
Mostly because, aside from him, they had no one else to choose.
…
No one paid any attention to the Sixth Prince in the palace.
His maternal family was finished—virtually wiped out—and given the Tianshou Emperor’s petty nature, even the dullest person would not believe the Sixth Prince still had any chance of inheriting the throne.
Meng Xizhao could not even be bothered to deal with him. He intended to let him remain in the palace and fend for himself. Once the Crown Prince ascended the throne, they could assess the situation—if the Sixth Prince behaved, he could be sent out as an idle prince; if not, he could be assigned to guard the imperial mausoleum.
History offered countless ways to deal with princes—any one of them would suffice.
But what Meng Xizhao did not expect was that while they were all overwhelmed with work, a small incident would arise within the harem.
The Sixth Prince pleaded on behalf of the Gan family and was rebuked by the Tianshou Emperor. After that, he behaved himself for a while. Then, for reasons unknown, the Emperor suddenly ordered him expelled from the palace. Since he held no title and had nowhere to go, the Emperor hastily granted him one overnight—Prince You.
That is to say, he was assigned to Youzhou, bordering the Xiongnu.
Meng Xizhao was extremely curious. Could a mere plea really anger the Emperor to such an extent? It felt as though he had been cast aside like trash. Something did not add up, so he went to his informant to investigate.
Eunuch Qin had more or less resigned himself to his position. There was nothing bad about it—after all, Meng Xizhao represented the Crown Prince, who was now all but certain to become the next Emperor.
He told Meng Xizhao that it was not so simple. What truly enraged the Emperor was that the Sixth Prince had dared to behave improperly toward a palace consort.
“Improperly” might not even be the right word—no one had actually witnessed anything. It was Consort Su herself who claimed that the way the Sixth Prince looked at her made her feel afraid, as though he intended to do something to her.
Consort Su was not one to lie, nor did she ever seek to sow discord. Moreover, she had always treated all the princes kindly. Because the Sixth Prince appeared more frequently, she had interacted with him more than most.
But who was Su Ruocun?
She was someone who could turn the dead into the living with her words. With just a subtle hint, she could place herself in an unassailable position.
In the past, the Emperor’s affection for the Sixth Prince had all stemmed from Consort Gan. Now that Consort Gan had fallen from grace, the Sixth Prince naturally fell with her.
Hearing the full story, Meng Xizhao felt a bit puzzled.
He could not understand why Su Ruocun would target the Sixth Prince. Could it be that she bore a grudge against Consort Gan?
That did not seem to be the case. The Su family’s misfortune had come from Qiu Sumin and Gan Rui. When Consort Gan died, the Su family had still been doing just fine.
Shaking his head, Meng Xizhao stopped paying attention to the matter.
＊
The year was drawing to a close.
As the New Year approached, the tense, fearful atmosphere in Ying Tian Prefecture eased somewhat. But just because things appeared calm on the surface did not mean the court itself was at peace.
The fall of one Gan Rui meant someone else would rise—and the one eagerly preparing to take everything over was Yan Shunying.
But Situ Huan would never stand by and watch him become the next Gan Rui, so he constantly opposed him. And after a period of silence, Meng Jiuyu decisively tore up his alliance with Yan Shunying and instead joined forces with Grand Chancellor Situ.
The court was now a complete mess.
With the Emperor absent from court for so long, there were clear signs of unrest below. Some veteran officials loyal to the Tianshou Emperor urged him to return to court, but after Gan Rui’s death, he became even more neglectful of state affairs. He grew obsessed with discussions of life and death, summoning palace consorts to read scriptures to him. While they read, he would handle his “heavenly stone,” looking eerily similar to how Han Daozhen once had.
Meng Xizhao did not involve himself in the political infighting, but during this time, he appeared frequently in the palace—always bringing the Emperor new Buddhist scriptures and fresh commentaries.
Excellent. His reputation as a treacherous minister became even more firmly cemented.
Many people looked at him with disdain. The Emperor had already abandoned governance—yet not only did Meng Xizhao fail to advise him otherwise, he even seemed to encourage it. What a vile sycophant!
Meng Xizhao rubbed his nose. This time, he had not intended to tarnish his own reputation—but since it was already ruined, a little more would not hurt.
…
On the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth lunar month, beneath a gloomy sky, Meng Xizhao found time to drink with Zhan Buxiu once more.
This time, they were not in the outer city, but inside Bu Xun Tian.
The dishes here were clearly on a different level from the taverns outside. Meng Xizhao ordered a few of his favorites, then asked Zhan Buxiu what he wanted. Receiving the usual “anything is fine,” he simply lowered his head and added a few more dishes without comment.
When the food arrived, Zhan Buxiu glanced at the spread. His hand, holding the chopsticks, paused slightly.
They were all dishes he liked—even though he had never shown it.
Sometimes, even he wondered: was he really that easy to read, or was Meng Xizhao simply that attentive, noticing even the smallest details?
After a brief pause, he reached for one of the dishes. Not a trace of his thoughts showed on his face.
Meanwhile, Meng Xizhao continued the earlier topic. “My mother says they should wait until after the New Year before coming to propose. Seems like some old custom I do not know. Anyway, my sister is about to be married off… sigh. Daughters really cannot be kept at home forever.”
Zhan Buxiu: “…”
He silently ate, offering no comment.
But Meng Xizhao was not about to let him off. “Hey, what about your family? Your sister is the same age as mine. Aren’t you going to help arrange something for her?”
Only then did Zhan Buxiu answer more seriously, “If Ah Hui wants to marry, she will tell me. Since she has not, it means she does not wish to marry yet.”
Meng Xizhao paused. “…Maybe she is just shy.”
Zhan Buxiu replied calmly, “In front of me, Ah Hui is never shy.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
Well then. If her own brother said so, what could an outsider say?
Poking at the rice in his bowl, Meng Xizhao glanced at him, then suddenly asked, “What about you?”
Zhan Buxiu looked up.
Meng Xizhao continued, “You are not exactly young anymore. Do you not have any thoughts about it?”
He pressed on, “Right now, you are quite the hot commodity in Ying Tian Prefecture—General Guide, young and accomplished, highly sought after. Are there no young ladies who want to marry you? Has your grandfather not received any proposals?”
As he spoke, Meng Xizhao carefully observed his expression. Previously, his mind had been occupied with other matters, but now that things had calmed down, he finally had the space to think about Zhan Buxiu’s future.
In the original storyline, this man had married an empress and more than sixty consorts. Among them, at least a dozen were of high status and powerful backgrounds—each one practically a female lead in her own right.
Though the author clearly had a penchant for harems… there was no denying that Zhan Buxiu’s romantic fortune had once been extraordinary.
And now, looking at him living alone without a care in the world, Meng Xizhao could not help but feel concerned.
Logically speaking, life was getting better and more promising—should he not start thinking about settling down? Why was there still no movement?
Seeing that he did not respond, Meng Xizhao thought he might have offended him and hurriedly added, “I am not trying to matchmake or pressure you, I just—”
Zhan Buxiu cut him off. “I have no such plans for now.”
Meng Xizhao blinked. “Ah?”
Zhan Buxiu continued, “As for marriage, I have no intention at present. My grandfather has mentioned it, but ultimately, he respects my wishes.”
Meng Xizhao nodded slowly. “Oh… I see.”
Zhan Buxiu hummed, then asked, “What about you? Do you plan to go on like this forever?”
There was something different in his tone. Meng Xizhao caught it immediately—but he was not sure if he was imagining things, so he asked cautiously, “What do you mean, ‘like this’?”
Zhan Buxiu looked at him without answering.
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
His face went stiff. “You know?”
Zhan Buxiu lowered his gaze and poured himself a cup of wine.
Meng Xizhao could not help asking, “When did you find out?”
After a moment, Zhan Buxiu replied with characteristic brevity, “Nanzhao.”
“He cares about you too much.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Still, he found it strange. “But back in Nanzhao, there were so many people around. None of them noticed anything.”
Zhan Buxiu’s hand paused briefly as he held the cup, then he lifted it and drained it in one go.
Setting it down, he finally raised his eyes and gave Meng Xizhao a perfunctory smile. “I am smarter than them.”
Meng Xizhao’s lips twitched. Inwardly, he thought—indeed, very clever. Even Yu Fulan had only realized the truth with Zhang Shuogong’s guidance. Zhan Buxiu had no such help, yet still figured it out. A genius, truly.
Meng Xizhao was no longer the same person who had once guarded this secret so tightly. And since the one who had discovered it was Zhan Buxiu, he thought for a moment—then suddenly laughed, accepting it just like that.
“If nothing unexpected happens, then yes—I want to go on like this. To stay with him. I am happy, and happiness is what matters most.”
Zhan Buxiu: “Even if his surname is Cui?”
Meng Xizhao: “Even if his surname is Cui.”
Resting his chin in his hand, he could not help but defend Cui Ye a little. “The Cui family… is indeed not quite normal. But even from rotten bamboo, good shoots can grow. Besides, he has never received any kindness from them—only pain and torment. If you were to ask him, you would find that in his eyes, he has no father. Only a mother. Empress Xie is his only family.”
Zhan Buxiu frowned slightly, then looked away, as if thinking. Seeing this, Meng Xizhao added, “It is not just him. The Grand Princess is the same—she has little attachment to the Cui family. Not all parents truly deserve the title of ‘parent.’ Some are disasters to their children from the very start. In this regard, you and I have never experienced it, so naturally, we would not understand.”
Zhan Buxiu suddenly looked at him. “Would not understand?”
Meng Xizhao froze.
Seeing his slightly surprised expression, Zhan Buxiu was suddenly reminded of their first meeting—how he had acted like a bandit, how merely hearing his father’s name had driven him into a frenzy.
In the blink of an eye, a year and a half had passed, and his state of mind had changed completely.
Thinking of that immature version of himself, he let out a faint, ambiguous chuckle.
“Before I entered officialdom, I truly did not understand. I blamed my family’s downfall on a foolish ruler. I believed my father—General Zhan—was a man who stood tall under heaven, a war god who should not even exist in this world, like an immortal descended among mortals. I worshipped him blindly. Ah Hui was rather indifferent toward him, and because of that, I even scolded her. But after leaving that small world of my home, I finally saw what Zhan Shenyu was really like. He was rigid and self-willed, unable to adapt, sharp-tongued, and utterly unwilling to repent. He was naive and foolish—and that is how he met his end.”
Meng Xizhao’s mouth parted slightly as he stared at him in astonishment.
Since becoming a general, Zhan Buxiu rarely spoke at such length. Meng Xizhao had never expected him to think this way. Lately, he had become a bit sensitive—whenever something seemed off with Zhan Buxiu, he would instinctively wonder whether it was the result of some butterfly effect he had caused.
After a moment, he could not help asking, “Then do you think… he deserved it?”
Zhan Buxiu glanced at him and replied calmly, “I would not say he deserved it. Only that he bore some fault as well.”
Meng Xizhao fell silent.
People were often especially harsh toward their parents. Perhaps because, in a child’s eyes, every parent was a hero. And when the child grew up and realized that their parents were not heroes at all—just ordinary people among countless others—it could be a heavy blow.
But…
Meng Xizhao considered his words before speaking. “There is no such thing as a perfect victim. If a woman is abducted by bandits on the street because she is beautiful and did not cover her face—does that make it her fault? General Zhan may have had the flaws you mentioned. No one is perfect. But the ones truly at fault were those who used him. With a different emperor, a different court, the outcome would not have been the same. And conversely—even if General Zhan had none of those flaws, he still would have been schemed against and destroyed. As long as he remained that general, it was inevitable.”
Moreover, if he had not possessed those traits—if he had chosen self-preservation over duty—the people would not have admired him so deeply, nor would his death have sparked such far-reaching consequences.
But people were different. As an outsider, Meng Xizhao could judge Zhan Shenyu generously. As his son, Zhan Buxiu could not be so objective.
Lowering his gaze to his cup, he remained silent for a long time before speaking again. “In the future, I will also be a great general.”
Meng Xizhao nodded without hesitation. “I know.”
At that moment, Zhan Buxiu raised his cup in a toast.
A faint smile touched his lips. “But I will do better than he did.”
Meng Xizhao paused, then raised his own cup with a smile. “Then once again—I wish you victory at the first strike and success upon arrival.”
They looked at each other, and with unspoken understanding, drained their cups in one go.
Outside the window, the sun broke through the clouds, and the blue sky gradually revealed itself. No one knew when the weather had turned clear. The kind of fine day everyone spoke of—perhaps it was just like this.