On the fifteenth day of the second spring month—the Flower Festival of Great Qi—a major event occurred for the Meng family. Xie Yuan’s father, Xie You, invited a distant aunt from their clan to formally propose marriage on Xie Yuan’s behalf.
The betrothal cards had already been exchanged earlier, so there had been no need for a female elder then. But for the formal proposal, Xie You could not go alone, so he had to pick out a barely suitable female relative from among the clan.
With the Emperor of Tianshou gravely ill and the Crown Prince governing in his stead, it seemed on the surface that Meng Xizhao was the one flaunting power. But in truth, the family that had truly risen in status was the Xie family.
Without making a fuss, the Xie family’s former invisibility vanished. Old acquaintances who had once cut off contact began visiting again, and relatives who had once wished to disown them now came flocking back with great enthusiasm.
Xie Chuan, Duke of Fangling, still kept his doors closed to all visitors, refusing to see anyone. Xie You, however, very much wanted to follow his father’s example—but faced with reality, he lacked both the temperament and the courage.
Having endured too many hard days, even now that life had improved, Xie You still felt a constant tension in his heart. He dared not relax, fearing that this prosperity might be fleeting, and that an even greater disaster might descend upon his family at any moment.
Fortunately, he had more than one son. Xie Yuan was of little help—if anything, it was enough that he could keep trouble away from himself. But Xie Yun was different.
Since last June, when the Crown Prince returned in triumph with the royal family of Nanzhao, Xie Yuan came back with him. After shutting themselves in, the two brothers talked through the night. The next day, Xie Yun stepped out with dark circles under his eyes and an irritated expression.
Though he looked extremely unwilling, he still listened to Xie Yuan. He declined most of his romantic engagements and began studying seriously at home. Of course, old habits die hard—he still sneaked out occasionally to meet beauties, but the frequency had dropped significantly.
Xie Yun was also talented. The studies he had once neglected came back to him within just two months. At his age, full of energy, once he realized he was actually capable, his confidence swelled. He decided to take this year’s provincial examination.
He had passed the preliminary student level, but had never earned the xiucai degree. In his own mind, if he went to take the exam, it would be a guaranteed success.
However, after Xie Yuan returned home and heard of his younger brother’s grand ambitions, he frowned, called him into his room again, and whispered a few words to him.
Poor Xie Yun suffered another blow.
The books that had once felt so intimate now failed to stir any interest in him. Just then, those shameless ingrates who had come crawling back, trying to reconnect with the Xie family, happened to show up. Xie Yun rolled up his sleeves, shoved his father aside, and charged into battle himself.
How could ordinary people possibly out-argue someone who had spent years navigating the pleasure quarters? Nearly all of them were verbally humiliated into retreat.
Even so, the Xie household was no longer quiet. What did a few insults matter? As long as they could build ties with the family of the future emperor, they would gladly endure even beatings, let alone harsh words.
…
Some of the more impatient opportunists had even begun privately considering approaching the Crown Prince, suggesting that the Ministry of Revenue allocate funds to properly refurbish Empress Xie’s mausoleum.
When Meng Xizhao heard about all this, his face was full of speechless disbelief.
It was a perfect demonstration of what it meant for the tea to go cold as soon as the person was gone—and the Emperor of Tianshou was not even dead yet, yet the tea had already gone completely cold.
Having received nine years of compulsory education and watched countless historical dramas with his family, Meng Xizhao had always held a misconception. He used to think that ancient emperors possessed godlike status, untouchable, and that rebellion was an extraordinarily difficult undertaking requiring perfect timing.
But the reality was different. Yes, the emperor’s status was extremely high—but broadly speaking, what people were loyal to was “the emperor” as an institution, that is, the throne itself. Once the current emperor lost his hold on that throne, people’s attention would simply shift to whoever occupied it next.
After all, this was a hereditary monarchy. When one emperor stepped down and another ascended, that had always been the way of things throughout history. There was nothing illogical about it.
If the Emperor of Tianshou had possessed better character, perhaps more officials would have been loyal to him personally. But… given the misdeeds he had committed over the years, even the most loyal supporters of the Great Qi dynasty, upon hearing of his grave illness, did not feel sorrow first. Instead, they wondered: what kind of person is the Crown Prince? Can he govern the realm well?
A typical example was Meng Xizhao’s maternal grandfather. As a veteran official who had followed his father into battle alongside the founding emperor, the Duke of Wu was an absolute royalist. This was likely one of the reasons that, in the original storyline, upon learning that his daughter and son-in-law’s entire family had been executed by the emperor, he died of rage.
The Duke of Wu despised anyone who sought to undermine the Great Qi dynasty. Back when the unrest in Jiangzhou was ignored by most, he had declared that if not for his injured back, he would have personally gone to the battlefield to slaughter those reckless rebels.
And yet, it was also him who, upon learning that the Crown Prince had taken power—and had promoted his grandson to the position of Left Cavalier Attendant of the third rank—burst into hearty laughter, stroking his beard, and instructed the kitchen to roast a lamb for him that evening.
…
Fortunately, the duchess was quick-witted. The moment she heard him laugh, she covered his mouth, keeping the matter contained within the Li and Meng families. If word had spread, the old duke himself would have been fine—given his status and retirement—but Meng Jiuyu, Meng Xizhao, and the others would likely have come under attack.
After realizing his own misunderstanding, Meng Xizhao raised an eyebrow and stared at the self-criticism edict he had drafted. Then, he made a bold decision.
He moved up the timing of its release.
On the day of the Flower Festival, when he should have gone home with polite smiles to listen to that Xie family aunt praise their beloved daughter, he instead remained in the Eastern Palace. Acting as a “witness” to the Emperor of Tianshou’s supposed repentance, he hurried to Wende Hall and staged a performance, claiming that the emperor intended to issue a self-criticism edict.
He acted extremely flustered, making it sound grave—as though the emperor was experiencing a final moment of lucidity before death.
Hearing this, no one had the mind to question the edict itself. Instead, they all rushed to Huaning Hall, prepared to hear the emperor’s last words—or more precisely, to hear Consort Su relay them.
But when they arrived, Huaning Hall was bustling with activity. Consort Su stood to one side, silently shedding tears, while Court Physician Dou had his back to them, constantly checking the emperor’s pulse without saying a word.
After a long while, a conclusion was finally reached. Yet Court Physician Dou only told them that the emperor’s pulse had been somewhat unstable but had now calmed, and that he should be allowed to rest.
After being led around like this, everyone was left bewildered. Their emotions having surged and crashed, they finally remembered the self-criticism edict.
It was already certain that the emperor could not speak. Even a final moment of clarity would not restore his voice. So where did this edict come from?
Consort Su wiped her tears and, choking with emotion, told them that after the emperor had awakened, he had forced himself to raise his hand and, stroke by stroke, written a sentence in her palm.
—“I wronged him. I must clear his name. I will issue a self-criticism edict. Zhan Shenyu… I do not wish to see him again.”
The entire court: “…………”
So he had begun seeing hallucinations.
It was not hard to imagine what kind of visions the emperor was having. After all, he had wronged General Zhan so terribly. When a person is guilty, even the figures in their dreams take on grotesque forms.
The officials exchanged glances, all feeling a strange unease. A self-criticism edict was usually issued only in times of natural disaster or extreme calamity, and even then, emperors did so reluctantly. Now, with the realm at peace, producing such a document—could it cause unforeseen problems?
Most officials neither supported nor opposed it. Situ Huan and Yan Shunying, on the other hand, were calculating what benefits it might bring them.
The only one who strongly opposed it was Geng Wenjin.
Yes—him alone.
Since the new year, Shang Xiguan had not emerged from his withdrawn, timid state. Even upon hearing such shocking news, he showed almost no reaction.
Well, not entirely none—he lowered his head even further, his body trembling slightly, as though what he had just heard was not someone speaking, but the sound of a second shoe finally dropping.
Geng Wenjin was not nearly as dejected as Shang Xiguan. Right there in Huaning Hall, he loudly voiced his opposition, completely disregarding the fact that the Emperor of Tianshou was still lying nearby.
Cui Ye, meanwhile, put on the perfect act of a filial son, sitting by the bedside and watching over the emperor. The medicine only rendered him immobile—no matter the dosage, he could not move—but his mind remained clear. In other words, he had heard everything that had just been said.
As Cui Ye listened to Geng Wenjin’s outburst, he immediately turned his head and rebuked him: “Director Geng, shouting in the presence of His Majesty—are you tired of living?!”
Red-faced and thick-necked, Geng Wenjin finally came to his senses, like a chicken with its throat seized, suddenly unable to make a sound.
Whether Zhan Shenyu would be rehabilitated or not did not matter much to those still alive. For one, he had been a military general, and his only son was also in the military. For another, everyone knew that the reputation of the Great Qi dynasty had already sunk to a terrible level. While it had not yet affected the officials’ actual interests, who would willingly bear the burden of public condemnation?
Setting aside the worst-off Meng Jiuyu, even his colleagues had been cursed by the people. The common folk did not care whether they had participated in the confiscations or not—they only believed one thing: all officials were cut from the same cloth.
…
Only those who were on good terms with Geng Wenjin tried to speak up for him. And then there were the useless military officers—those who had bribed him before, who wanted promotions but not war—trying to keep him safe.
Geng Wenjin had already had a premonition before; now he felt it had come true. Convinced he was doomed, he returned home in a daze, even beginning to consider whether he should flee or make a desperate stand.
As the one in charge of the Privy Council, he naturally knew the military strength of Yingti Prefecture. He also knew that although Ding Chun appeared powerful, the troops he commanded were mostly stationed outside, far inferior to the elite forces permanently guarding Yingti.
But to rise in rebellion within Yingti itself was far too difficult—there was neither justification nor legitimacy, and at the slightest misstep, his own subordinates might turn on him. It would be better to gather a few reliable men, take part of the troops, flee to a place beyond the Crown Prince’s immediate control, and then make plans from there…
Even if that only prolonged his death, he did not want to die tomorrow.
A vague plan began to take shape in Geng Wenjin’s mind. He had even started deciding whom to approach. Shang Xiguan was not under consideration—he could stay behind in Yingti and die there.
Just as he was going over his list, a guard from the Eastern Palace arrived, saying that the Crown Prince requested his presence in the palace to discuss matters.
Without exaggeration, every hair on Geng Wenjin’s body seemed to stand on end. He thought he was being summoned to a banquet of no return—that he would not live to see the next sunrise.
But he had no choice. There was not enough time to form a proper plan.
In the end, trembling with fear, he went to the Eastern Palace—only to be greeted by a Crown Prince who was courteous and gentle.
The Crown Prince helped him up. With no one else present, he spoke candidly, saying that he had already decided to fulfill the Emperor of Tianshou’s wish and issue the self-criticism edict.
Since a rehabilitation was to take place, there had to be a scapegoat to bear the blame. As the heir apparent and the future emperor of Great Qi, he did not wish to see the court’s talents wither away, nor did he want incompetents occupying important positions. Therefore, he hoped Geng Wenjin would assist him in turning this matter into an opportunity to purge the court.
Geng Wenjin stared at him blankly for a long moment before finally realizing—the Crown Prince did not intend to move against him, but against Shang Xiguan.
The Crown Prince repeatedly hinted that what was past could be left behind. He admired General Zhan Shenyu, but he also respected Director Geng’s abilities. And ability, he said, was what a worthy heir valued most.
Geng Wenjin’s expression gradually changed. He had never been particularly loyal to the Emperor of Tianshou anyway. Now that the new ruler had extended an olive branch, only a fool would refuse it.
He believed the Crown Prince had chosen to speak with him alone out of trust and esteem. In reality, the Crown Prince had done so because these words could not be allowed to spread.
He was not like the Emperor of Tianshou, who did not care about issuing contradictory orders. He cared about his reputation—he still intended to be remembered alongside Meng Xizhao as a wise ruler and a virtuous minister. He could not allow a blemish of broken promises to remain in history just because of Geng Wenjin.
With his life spared, Geng Wenjin was overjoyed. He quickly agreed to the Crown Prince’s request, and by the very next day, he had completely changed his stance, returning to what he did best.
Back then, he had risen by stepping over Zhan Shenyu, gaining the Emperor of Tianshou’s trust. Now, he would rise again by stepping over Shang Xiguan, gaining the Crown Prince’s trust.
The reckoning with Shang Xiguan would come later. For now, the priority was to issue the self-criticism edict.
Once the edict was released, the entire Great Qi was like a pond. Centered on Yingti Prefecture, it was as if something had dropped into the water with a resounding splash—ripples spreading outward, shocking every citizen who heard the news.
How shocked the people were, how deeply they felt—none of that was known to the Zhan family.
The three members of the Zhan family sat in their dilapidated home in the outer city, silent, none of them speaking.
Zhan Buxiu looked at his desolate grandfather and his quiet younger sister, then said, “The Crown Prince has granted our family a new residence. Everything is fully furnished—even the servants are from the palace. As for Father and Mother’s graves, they will be reopened and given proper reburial. Grandfather, we can move back to the inner city.”
Old Master Zhan did not respond.
Back then, it had been his stubborn insistence to keep their broken family in Yingti. His grandson and granddaughter had clearly wanted to leave, yet for the sake of a persistence that was both lofty and somewhat absurd, he had forced the two children to grow up in suffocating poverty.
Now his persistence had been rewarded. Their family could return. Yet he felt no sense of vindication—only a deeper melancholy.
His emotions were too complicated. Facing the grandson who had brought them this chance to return, he did not know what to say.
In the end, he simply stood up and heavily patted Zhan Buxiu on the shoulder. He wanted to give him the same hearty smile he used to when Zhan Shenyu was still alive—but it had been too many years since he last smiled. The expression that emerged was stiff and awkward.
Yet from that smile, Zhan Buxiu understood his grandfather’s meaning. He, too, tugged faintly at the corners of his lips.
And that was the happiest moment the Zhan family showed that day.
Zhan Hui looked at the two of them, then slowly lowered her eyes.