She was not the only one crying openly. Almost everyone present felt the urge to weep, though some held back for the sake of decorum.
The princess was soon escorted back to her room by her maids, while Lu Fengqiu, Zang He, and others were summoned by Meng Xizhao to his room for a small meeting.
His room had just one chair—occupied by the Crown Prince, who stayed seated with no one daring to ask him to rise—and a single stool. When Meng Xizhao entered, he moved the stool under his own seat.
…
Everyone else was too caught up in events to care about such details, and no one objected to standing during the meeting.
Meng Xizhao began, “The Left Worthy King said that in ten days, the Chanyu will be buried, and on the same day, the new Chanyu will ascend—the Second Prince, Annuwei.”
Hearing that it was not the First Prince, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
The First Prince had practically written “I despise Qi” on his face. Had he succeeded, would any of them have survived to leave?
Though the First Prince would not inherit, a few still felt some lingering concern.
Lu Fengqiu asked anxiously, “Will their First Prince still try to make things difficult for us?”
Meng Xizhao shook his head. “I’m not sure. The Left Worthy King said the First Prince was so agitated today that he fell ill shortly after returning home.”
Everyone: “…………”
That wasn’t merely illness—it sounded more like house arrest.
Their expressions subtly shifted.
The atmosphere grew quiet. The Crown Prince picked up a nearby teacup and blew lightly across it, as if gently returning their reason.
Lu Fengqiu nodded solemnly. “The First Prince, cough… truly a dutiful son. The Chanyu, wherever he is, must be comforted to see him so heartbroken.”
Zang He added, “The Chanyu has successors—fortunate for the Xiongnu. As a citizen of Great Qi, I am likewise relieved. But how serious is the First Prince’s illness? How long will recovery take?”
Ding Chun looked to Meng Xizhao for an answer.
Meng Xizhao sat upright and said bluntly, “Who cares? He won’t be better before we leave.”
Others: “……”
Meng Shaoqing! Citizens of Qi don’t usually speak so directly!
Yet somehow it felt satisfying to hear.
Cui Ye set down his teacup. “What else did the Left Worthy King say?”
Meng Xizhao turned to answer him. “He asked whether we wanted to attend the Second Prince’s enthronement in ten days.”
Lu Fengqiu gasped, “Isn’t that risky? We’d be outsiders at a Xiongnu enthronement…”
Meng Xizhao smiled at him. “That’s why I refused. I said we’ve already been away for some time. The Xiongnu are formidable, but Qi people are homesick. Everyone is eager to return, and our caravan is fully prepared. Disrupting the plan would be troublesome, so it’s better to stick to the original schedule.”
Lu Fengqiu exhaled heavily, relieved.
Zang He asked, “Then tomorrow we will take our leave from the Xiongnu?”
Meng Xizhao nodded. “Yes. And there’s also the matter of negotiating horse purchases.”
Lu Fengqiu, emotionally spent, was momentarily stunned. “Horse purchases? What is there to discuss? The Ministry of Agriculture and Ministry of War will handle that next February.”
Meng Xizhao gave a casual “oh” and, with exaggerated seriousness, said, “Apologies, I was busy preparing the princess’s wedding and forgot to mention: I spoke with the Xiongnu about horse prices. I felt they were too high, and requested a reduction. Though reluctant, they verbally agreed. So tomorrow we must formalize it in writing.”
Everyone—from the clerks to the generals—shivered. “…Really?!”
Meng Xizhao: “Why would I lie about this?”
Every face was stunned.
Buying horses from the Xiongnu each year cost four million taels of silver and one hundred thousand shi of grain. Transporting that silver and grain required heavily laden ships, which, departing from Ying Tianfu, carried not just resources but a full tenth of the national treasury.
A tenth!
Saving that money could achieve so much: disaster relief without pinching pennies, pensions for fallen soldiers, and reopening orphanages, clinics, and welfare offices that had been suspended due to lack of funds.
Meng Xizhao watched their delight, took a small bite of a pastry, chewed thoughtfully, and only then continued: “However, the person who agreed to lower the price is the Right Worthy King—the First Prince’s father-in-law. He may not attend tomorrow, so we’ll have to negotiate with the Left Worthy King instead.”
The three officials: “……”
Just as their excitement peaked, a bucket of cold water was thrown over them. They were stunned for a moment before regaining composure.
Lu Fengqiu asked, “Meng Shaoqing, do you think the Left Worthy King will agree?”
Meng Xizhao hummed. “It’s a bit uncertain.”
Their hearts sank instantly. Without prior expectation, they had assumed this massive achievement would be credited to Meng Xizhao—and they would share in the glory. Now, the possibility of failure struck them hard.
Lu Fengqiu’s face immediately filled with anxiety, but Zang He was a bit smarter. He looked at Meng Xizhao’s expression and sensed that if there were truly little hope, Meng Xizhao wouldn’t have summoned them so solemnly just to discuss this matter.
Zang He seemed to understand: “Master Meng, do you have a clever plan that requires our assistance?”
Meng Xizhao looked at him with clear appreciation.
No wonder he, like his father, had earned the rank of Tanhua—the third highest in the imperial exams. Such intelligence, matched only by his striking looks!
Meng Xizhao finally smiled. “Clever plan? Honestly, no. Only a few small tricks. Tomorrow, all of you will be at the negotiation table. I hope that then you can trust me—whatever happens, we face it together. Share the fortune, bear the hardships together.”
Zang He understood. Meng Xizhao feared that he might inadvertently hold things back.
He smiled to himself. Meng Xizhao’s words seemed a touch condescending, but Zang He knew that since arriving in the Xiongnu lands, every matter had been orchestrated by Meng Xizhao. Because he hadn’t grasped the full situation or entered Meng Xizhao’s inner circle, he had remained a peripheral, unable to act effectively.
This realization sparked his competitive spirit.
Of course, it wasn’t about surpassing Meng Xizhao—he knew that was nearly impossible. He simply wanted to prove his own ability, to show that he, too, was capable.
Lowering his gaze, Zang He prepared himself. Lu Fengqiu, having understood Meng Xizhao’s meaning, immediately patted his chest and vowed to follow Meng Xizhao’s lead tomorrow, making no independent decisions.
Ding Chun, too, had no hesitation. He greatly admired Meng Xizhao—bold, cunning, seemingly erratic, yet always achieving surprising results. Knowing that his own skills lay only in warfare, he resolved to follow Meng Xizhao without question, raising both hands in agreement.
…
After settling his colleagues, Meng Xizhao told them to rest. Tomorrow morning, they would go to the Xiongnu palace to meet the Second Prince and the Left Worthy King. Regardless of the outcome, they would pack and depart at daybreak the day after tomorrow, without wasting a single second.
＊
Once the three left, the temporary matters concluded. Meng Xizhao had been awake for nearly seventeen hours; exhaustion hit him hard, and he could barely keep his eyes open.
By habit, he headed for his bed, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure.
A jolt—he realized Cui Ye was still in his room!
Since the Princess of Chu had taken over his quarters, he couldn’t ask Cui Ye to move, meaning he would have to find another place to sleep…
He wondered if there were any vacant rooms left; if not, he would have to squeeze in with Zang He.
Wait—Zang He was originally sharing with Lu Fengqiu?
As Meng Xizhao pondered his sleeping arrangements, Cui Ye looked up and studied him for a moment. “Aren’t you tired? Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Meng Xizhao replied, “…Yu Du Tou hasn’t returned. I’ll make do in his room for one night.”
Cui Ye frowned. “Why go there?”
Meng Xizhao’s expression plainly read: to give you space.
Seeing that Cui Ye wanted to tease him but recognized how exhausted he was, he sighed. “Sleep here. The Xiongnu guards likely won’t leave until we depart. Once you’re asleep, I’ll spend the night in Yu Fulan’s room.”
Meng Xizhao shyly said, “How could I… let Your Highness change rooms?”
But he didn’t finish speaking before dashing to his bed. “I’ll rest first. You may do as you please.”
With that, he quickly changed, removed his boots, and lay down in just his white underclothes, pulling the thick quilt over himself.
The sense of security washed over him. He smiled faintly, then his head tipped, and he slept as if falling into the abyss.
Cui Ye: “…………”
Speechless, yet after a moment, he couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh.
He slowly stood, approached Meng Xizhao, bent slightly, and observed him carefully, making sure he truly was asleep. Then he heard the soft snore.
…
Cui Ye suddenly felt a strong impulse to admire Meng Xizhao utterly.
Clever beyond anyone, thoughtful beyond anyone—but Meng Xizhao had the ability to conceive, act, and then continue eating and sleeping as if nothing had happened. Such ease of mind inspired respect.
By comparison, Cui Ye had likely never slept so soundly in his life.
Straightening up, he thought for a moment, sat at the side of Meng Xizhao’s bed, tucked the quilt around him, and then leaned back, emptying his thoughts.
Since Meng Xizhao had raised the matter of horse price reductions, it was clear he had a plan—and he would accomplish it.
Horses, strategy, escaping the peril when the Chanyu died suddenly, and gaining the Xiongnu’s understanding and friendship.
Each act alone was enough to shock the court.
Upon returning to Ying Tianfu, not only would Meng Xizhao gain promotion, but everyone who had journeyed with him—even ordinary eunuchs—would gain influence within the palace.
Of course, this included him—the powerless Crown Prince, sent on a marriage mission only because of the emperor’s caprice.
Throughout history, credit for achievements rarely rested with ministers; it belonged to the ruler.
In the annals, today’s deeds would be recorded as the accomplishments of Emperor Tianshou. Future generations would speak of how his reign succeeded. But in the eyes of those living now, it was this Crown Prince who had led effectively—and all the credit for the mission belonged to him.
After learning that Cui Ye would also be part of the marriage escort, Meng Xizhao had given him that note—the one symbolizing a break in the ice. At that moment, Cui Ye realized that Meng Xizhao was pleased with his own inadvertent actions and wanted him along for the mission.
At the time, he hadn’t fully understood Meng Xizhao’s reasoning. Now he did.
This was a calculated move.
As the Crown Prince, Cui Ye had long been surrounded by those attempting to guide—or manipulate—him. When he was young, unfamiliar ministers would quietly approach, wearing expressions of concern, even invoking his mother to instill ideas of hatred and power struggles. Fortunately, though young, his instincts were sharp, and he quickly discerned their true intentions. He spoke not a single word, and soon after, the minister was exiled. Now, the grass over his grave was two meters high.
As he grew older, he began corresponding with the Xie family. Their excited replies often hinted at the kind of assistance they could provide.
At his station, there was only one form of help they could offer: support for him to rise and challenge the emperor. Both the strangers and the Xie relatives had different motives, but the outcome was the same—they sought to push him to act, to stand against imperial authority. Yet Cui Ye had no interest in power.
The Qi dynasty had seen four generations of emperors, and not one had been truly normal. It seemed that anyone who reached the throne had their traits magnified—strengths amplified, flaws magnified.
If Emperor Tianshou hadn’t been emperor, he would have been just a reckless playboy like the former Meng Xizhao. His destructive potential was roughly equivalent to the bumbling Li Huai—but once on the throne, countless lives flowed through his hands, tragedies spreading in waves. The most absurd part? Tianshou himself remained oblivious; he never directly killed anyone, so he didn’t see himself as responsible.
Cui Ye feared he might one day become the same.
No one is perfect. The only person who truly knows oneself is oneself. Cui Ye knew his own flaws, which currently mattered little as a powerless Crown Prince. But if he carried those same flaws into the throne, he couldn’t predict what kind of man he would become—perhaps like Tianshou, despised by thousands yet unaware.
He was not afraid of blame. But he feared, when he met his mother in the afterlife, seeing her disappointed gaze.
So, if possible, he sought only the principle of self-preservation.
Yet his fate shifted sharply the day he met Meng Xizhao. Now, “self-preservation” was precarious. He stood at a crossroads in life—one step forward, no turning back; one step back, and he risked losing everything.
Granted, what he currently possessed wasn’t much—only Meng Xizhao’s trust and closeness.
Lowering his gaze, Cui Ye instinctively touched his chest, feeling the crescent-shaped jade pendant that Empress Xie had worn before her marriage. The pendant had been left to him, though he never displayed it.
Tracing its shape, his expression grew blank. After a long pause, he released it.
Turning his head, he looked at Meng Xizhao, now asleep with cheeks flushed pink, and whispered,
“Er Lang… it’s you who brought me here.”
“From now on… never let go of my hand.”
His voice was soft, like a murmur—too quiet for even Meng Xizhao to catch fully. Reaching out, Cui Ye gently tucked a strand of hair behind Meng Xizhao’s ear. Meng Xizhao twitched, feeling ticklish, and buried his face in the pillow, letting out a small, disgruntled hum.
Cui Ye chuckled lightly, then rose and left the room.
＊
The next day, Cui Ye donned a cloak and accompanied Meng Xizhao and the others to the Xiongnu palace.
Before they arrived, the Second Prince sat with his mother and the Left Worthy King discussing the matter of the Princess of Chu.
Yesterday, the Left Worthy King had agreed to allow the princess to return home, but after informing the Grand Madam, she opposed it.
“A woman married into the Xiongnu—how can she be sent back? She’s now part of the royal family and must remain!”
The Left Worthy King frowned. “But the Chanyu’s incident happened while she was with him. Are you saying she should now marry the Second Prince?”
The Second Prince had glimpsed the Princess of Chu’s beauty on their wedding day. Admittedly, he was tempted. But thinking of his father lying buried in the ice and snow, he shuddered and shook his head violently.
Grand Madam: “……”
“I never said she should marry my son. The Chanyu died under suspicious circumstances—shouldn’t the woman remain? Even if unrelated, she must be punished, or where would our mother-son honor stand?”
Left Worthy King: “…………”
What a frustrating morning.
Your honor—or the Xiongnu’s interests?
Whether the princess stayed or left wasn’t crucial. Sending her back could earn Meng Xizhao a favor, making him more lenient later and providing someone to mediate if the Xiongnu acted. Keeping her, however, would show Meng Xizhao that promises were broken, and he might return to Qi to exaggerate the faults onto the Xiongnu.
The Left Worthy King understood: the princess was merely a pretext. Grand Madam’s real grievance was his unilateral decision yesterday—overstepping mother and son—using the princess as an excuse.
He sneered inwardly.
In his life, he had only ever been loyal to one person—Old Chanyu. He barely cared about Old Chanyu’s sons, let alone a politically married-in Grand Madam.
The two were like needles on wheat awns, sharp and unyielding. Both had only just begun wielding authority, and their tempers were high, their ambitions even higher. Neither would give an inch. Before the Qi envoys even arrived, they’d already quarrelled—and Grand Madam found, to her growing frustration, that she could not outmatch the Left Worthy King.
The Left Worthy King had always kept a low profile, rarely appearing in the Chanyu court unless summoned, unlike the Right Worthy King, who practically bounced around the court daily. Grand Madam had assumed he was a man of little ambition, and so she readily agreed to cooperate with him.
Now, she realized she had misjudged him. His temperament had changed, and it seemed likely he would soon be a permanent fixture in the Chanyu court.
Grand Madam ground her teeth, realizing she could not allow him free rein. But such plans could not be hatched in a day. Fortunately, the Qi envoys had arrived, so she temporarily suppressed her agitation, withdrew, and left the stage. As Grand Madam, she had no right to appear in such matters.
Seeing her retreat and lose influence, the Left Worthy King sneered, dismissing her as inconsequential.
He tidied the place, summoned the Second Prince—who had been too intimidated to speak earlier—and together they went to meet the Qi envoys.
The hall was the same one once used by the late Chanyu, but now the throne sat empty. The Left Worthy King and Second Prince received the envoys together, their seats indistinguishable in status.
Meng Xizhao glanced at them, preparing to bow in greeting, when his eyes caught someone else. His expression shifted instantly.
The Right Worthy King?!
Fo Kan, the Right Worthy King, stood to the side, still smiling at the Qi envoys. Noticing Meng Xizhao’s surprise, he showed no change in expression, only offering a courteous smile.
Meng Xizhao felt a swirl of conflicting emotions.
Left Worthy King… was he arrogant, or just magnanimous? The main player had been locked away, yet his strategist had been released—what kind of logic was this?
Could the Right Worthy King immediately switch loyalties, abandoning the First Prince to support him instead?
Meng Xizhao could not comprehend this mindset. Observing the calm Left Worthy King and the increasingly genial Right Worthy King, he realized that every day in the Xiongnu court would be a spectacle. But that was no concern of the Qi envoys.
Sitting at the negotiation table, both sides wasted no words and immediately addressed the issue of horse prices.
Though previously managed by the Right Worthy King, today it was the Left Worthy King speaking.
“How much does Qi wish to reduce the price?”
The Crown Prince sat in the center, silent, eyes fixed on his teacup.
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Shouldn’t this question come from you? Or shall we first hear the Xiongnu’s expectations for the price when we purchase horses?”
The Second Prince muttered, “Naturally, we still hope to buy at the original price.”
The Left Worthy King smiled faintly, tacitly agreeing.
Meng Xizhao nodded. “I see, so that’s eighty taels of silver?”
Left Worthy King: “…We said original price—two hundred taels of silver, five shi of grain.”
Before Meng Xizhao could respond, Zang He, sitting at the far end, chuckled: “Our original price too. Twenty years ago, whether in Qi, Yuezhi, Nanzhao, or even Goguryeo and Japan, historical records show horse prices never exceeded a hundred taels of silver.”
Left Worthy King frowned, scanning Zang He’s face. He had almost forgotten this quiet member of the Qi delegation existed.
“And so?” he said. “That price was set by your late emperor with our Chanyu.”
Zang He looked up, offering a polite yet pointed smile. “The late emperor was kindhearted. To assist the Xiongnu at the time, he let them gain significant advantage on horse prices. But twenty years have passed. The late emperor has long passed away. If the Xiongnu continue to benefit, what becomes of Qi?”
His words were harsh. The Left Worthy King felt anger rising, but Meng Xizhao quickly intervened, smiling: “Please, calm your temper, Left Worthy King. Do forgive Zang He’s bluntness. His intentions are good. As he said, Qi assisted Xiongnu to consolidate peace, generously supporting them for twenty years. Qi has fulfilled its duty. Now, Qi is embroiled in conflicts with Nanzhao. Surely it is time for the Xiongnu to lend us some support in return?”
The Left Worthy King sneered. “Support? Or taking advantage of us? Eighty taels of silver for Xiongnu’s finest horses? Better to continue dreaming of your Spring and Autumn tales!”
Meng Xizhao laughed: “Patience, your Highness. Eighty taels was just a joke. Twenty years have passed—prices rise yearly. How about this: this year, we buy at a hundred taels. Next year, a hundred and one. And so, year by year, a gradual accumulation. How does that sound?”
Even the Second Prince frowned. Accumulating year by year to reach the original two hundred taels—would it take a hundred years? A hundred years from now, his children would be long dead! And Qi had recently developed horse-replacing weapons—what if they annul the deal in a few years?
The Second Prince objected firmly: “No! Fix the price, don’t toy with such schemes!”
Meng Xizhao feigned surprise: “Alright… but we can’t accept two hundred taels. If that’s the price, we’d rather not buy the horses at all.”
Under the table, he nudged Cui Ye with his foot.
Cui Ye: “……”
Receiving the signal, Cui Ye’s ears perked up. He sensed something interesting and fixed his gaze on the Left Worthy King across the table.
The Left Worthy King’s chest tightened suddenly.
What was the Qi Crown Prince thinking? He had shown no reaction to the bargaining, yet now, upon hearing they might not buy, he was alert.
Could it be… that he, like the Qi emperor, actually preferred not to buy horses at all?
The Left Worthy King was silent for a moment before speaking: “Since we’re all here, I won’t go back on my word. As long as you compensate for the lowered price in other ways, we can drop the horse price by two tenths.”
Two tenths—forty taels—bringing the price from two hundred to one hundred sixty. It was already a significant concession.
He spoke as if it pained him. Last night, he had intended to drop it by only one tenth, holding firm no matter what the Qi envoys said.
Meng Xizhao didn’t respond immediately. He simply studied the Left Worthy King’s expression, trying to discern whether he was speaking truthfully.
After a while, uncertain of what conclusions he had drawn, Meng Xizhao smiled faintly. “So this is the extent of Xiongnu’s sincerity.”
The Second Prince frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
Meng Xizhao shot him a glance, his face darkening slightly, suppressing anger. “A top-quality horse from Yuezhi costs one hundred fifty taels, and no grain is required. Medium-quality, one hundred twenty taels; if purchased by a local, the price would be even lower. Poor-quality horses, just seventy taels, almost identical to Qi’s domestic prices. Yet Xiongnu asks one hundred sixty? Can you guarantee that all horses sent to Qi are the finest? Oh, right—I nearly forgot. Xiongnu doesn’t classify their horses. Every year they send them all together. Quality is mixed, and we must sort them ourselves.”
The Second Prince’s temper flared. “How can Yuezhi horses compare to ours?!”
Meng Xizhao snorted lightly, giving no answer.
The Left Worthy King stared silently. “How do you know Yuezhi horse prices?”
Meng Xizhao turned and smiled at him. “The Yuezhi general’s son-in-law and I are well-acquainted.”
At this, not only the Xiongnu but even the Qi envoys were surprised.
Lu Fengqiu was visibly shocked, as if saying: Meng Shaoqing, what other little surprises are you hiding from me?
Ding Chun looked puzzled. The Yuezhi general’s son-in-law? How could he be in contact with Meng Xizhao? Shouldn’t he be far away in Yuezhi?
Only Cui Ye, with his photographic memory, vaguely recalled the Yuezhi envoy, Juqu Huijue, who seemed to have a strong backing. He married a daughter of a Yuezhi military family, but having offended his wife, he had been assigned as envoy to Qi for many years.
Cui Ye: “…………”
The same identity, presented in different ways, could yield such strategic advantage. A lesson well learned.
The Second Prince, dissatisfied, interjected: “Don’t think you can use Yuezhi to pressure us. Without Xiongnu’s permission, they wouldn’t dare sell horses to Qi!”
Meng Xizhao’s expression darkened further. “Exactly. Because the Xiongnu have threatened other nations these past years, blocking horse sales, we had no choice but to develop weapons that reduce our dependence on horses.”
Ding Chun turned sharply, his gaze on Meng Xizhao nearly burning with intensity, only restraining himself when he remembered he was still at the negotiation table.
…
The Right Worthy King, sitting at the edge like Zang He, merely watched, entertained.
The Xiongnu argued point by point, yet Meng Xizhao casually deflected each, adding a hint of ridicule. They refused to lower the price, and Meng Xizhao refused the one hundred sixty taels. Just as the deadlock seemed unbreakable, Cui Ye scanned the room and suddenly stood.
His movement left everyone momentarily stunned.
He ignored the Xiongnu entirely, speaking impatiently to Meng Xizhao: “If this negotiation cannot proceed, then so be it. Whether one hundred sixty taels or even one hundred, Qi will not pay. We’ll return to Qi tomorrow. If your father objects, I’ll go and smooth things over for you.”
The three Qi officials were speechless.
In the presence of the Xiongnu, Cui Ye’s authority was well-known. By his mere stance, they tacitly acknowledged his words.
The Xiongnu were startled. Seeing the Crown Prince genuinely preparing to leave, and the others ready to follow, they had no time to intervene. Meng Xizhao, anxious, quickly approached him and whispered in his ear.
Cui Ye, however, scoffed: “No!”
Meng Xizhao frowned, clearly taking issue with Cui Ye, and leaned in again to whisper.
This time, Cui Ye’s expression softened, yet his gaze remained fixed on the palace gates, still intent on leaving.
Seeing his agreement, Meng Xizhao hurriedly urged him back to his seat, speaking to the Xiongnu: “Apologies. There is little point in further bargaining. Both Qi and Xiongnu wish to continue cooperation.”
Cui Ye snorted.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Having been publicly outmaneuvered, even Meng Xizhao’s own composure faltered. He paused before forcing a polite smile: “We leave tomorrow. Today, we must reach a decision. Here is Qi’s bottom line: we want to reduce the price by forty percent, and no longer provide grain or cloth as gifts.”
The Xiongnu erupted in protest.
A forty percent cut?! That’s one hundred twenty taels, and no grain or silks as gifts—the gap was enormous!
They were displeased, especially the Second Prince, whose protests were the loudest. Cui Ye, noticing this, furrowed his brow impatiently and rose again. This time, he walked straight out, giving no indication he would return.
Meng Xizhao hurried after him, bending slightly at the palace gate to reason with him. In the end, he managed to have Cui Ye take Lu Fengqiu and the others away, returning alone himself.
With the Qi envoys gone, Meng Xizhao no longer needed to hold back. He let out a deep sigh. “You’ve seen the temperament of our Crown Prince. That’s just his character—once he says something, it’s final.”
The Left Worthy King’s face darkened. “I don’t care what his temperament is. I do not accept this price!”
The Second Prince glanced at him.
It felt as if he himself were the future Chanyu. Left Worthy King kept saying “I” so casually… what did he mean by that?
Meng Xizhao gave a wry smile, directed at the Left Worthy King. “I understand. This is indeed excessive. You need this silver for your daily life. If we had given advance notice, it would have been different. But this late in the year, taking you by surprise, if I were in your position, I wouldn’t agree either.”
He sighed again. “But the Crown Prince’s orders cannot be defied. No matter what, he will not allow an increase in the price.”
Left Worthy King’s face, which had been softening, immediately turned cold again.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Meng Xizhao beat him to it. “Please hear me out first. We can compensate for this price from other sources. Earlier, I mentioned buying copper and iron. I know where it is—all hard currency. You may not wish to sell much, so we only need a small portion. The rest can be exchanged for your surplus resources.”
The Left Worthy King paused, suspicious. “Exchange for what?”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “For what you have the most of—animal hides, cattle, and sheep.”
The Left Worthy King blinked in surprise.
Meng Xizhao continued, “Having stayed in Xiongnu for so long, I’ve noticed your cattle and sheep are particularly tender. I imagine our gourmets in Qi would enjoy them greatly. We’ll buy at market price, plus a ten percent premium. You needn’t worry—this is a minor matter, and I can authorize it myself.”
Every Xiongnu household raised cattle and sheep; nobles often had tens of thousands. They could never consume it all themselves, so they sold it. Retail made little profit, but with Qi paying extra, even a ten percent bonus on tens of thousands of heads would be a fortune.
Horses and livestock alike could multiply endlessly. Originally, horses were sold for profit, but if Xiongnu could sell cattle and sheep instead, they would do so. After all, horses were military assets—who would export them casually?
Left Worthy King grew cautious. Meng Xizhao surely wasn’t doing this purely for Xiongnu’s benefit.
But his caution was useless alone. The Second Prince, hearing of the possibility to sell cattle and sheep, was nearly ready to call Meng Xizhao “brother.” He was a major landowner, with the most livestock among the nobles.
Taking over Left Worthy King’s assignment, the Second Prince spoke enthusiastically with Meng Xizhao. As long as Meng offered high prices, minor details like hides were trivial. Meng suggested taking hides at market price, but the priority was livestock. Hides would be an extra; Qi’s climate was not cold, so few needed them.
The Second Prince agreed readily.
With Cui Ye absent, the negotiation table felt like a cozy hearth at an old aunt’s house—the atmosphere was peaceful. Meng Xizhao and the Second Prince grew increasingly compatible in conversation. Eventually, Meng slammed the table, promising: “If you want grain and cloth, I have a way! The Crown Prince forbids us to gift them, but he will not prevent you from buying. Put it in the contract—purchase our grain and cloth at market price. You decide the quantity, so long as it does not exceed one hundred thousand shi.”
The Right Worthy King suddenly interjected: “Then we’re at a loss, aren’t we?”
Meng Xizhao shot him a glance that clearly said, are you serious?
Right Worthy King: “……”
Don’t think just because I’ve fallen out of prominence, you can openly look down on me!
Meng Xizhao shook his head. “Operate behind the scenes. You can sell us things that no one else has. Items that are difficult to price cannot be compared, so the price remains yours to set. Essentially, it’s just left hand to right hand. You won’t suffer a loss.”
The Xiongnu exchanged glances. It was confusing, but seemed reasonable.
So they began brainstorming—what unique resources did only Xiongnu have that could be traded for grain and cloth?
Meng Xizhao watched quietly as they racked their brains.
What else? In Xiongnu, real wealth came from mines, but most were useless, and on the surface, besides grass and… dung, there was almost nothing.
Meng Xizhao sipped his tea, waiting. Finally, a light bulb went off in the Right Worthy King’s mind:
The Heavenly Blood Horses!
Only Xiongnu had them, taken centuries ago. In this region, no one else possessed them.
But selling such precious horses just to get grain? Was it worth it?
Left Worthy King had been cautious, but seeing his compatriots so enthusiastically discussing, he silently joined their silent deliberations.
Hearing the Right Worthy King’s suggestion, Left Worthy King was nearly impressed with frustration.
Heavenly Blood Horses were horses, after all—fast, beautiful, but what other advantages? If they could be traded for grain, why not do it?
Truly, they were the most pragmatic among Xiongnu. If grain could be obtained with the Right Worthy King’s help, he would trade as well.
Meng Xizhao sipped his tea, reflecting inwardly.
Left Worthy King, you still have much to learn.
For Xiongnu, the Heavenly Blood Horses held far more symbolic value than practical. After a thousand years, they became a cultural emblem. Previously, they were never sold—only gifted to allies, like lucky charms, a source of pride. Now, suddenly selling them to obtain grain suggested that Xiongnu were in decline, even willing to part with their symbolic treasures.
And yet, even now, these few hadn’t realized—they were still at a loss, and a huge one at that.
Even if the money and grain matched previous years’ numbers, and the funds for purchasing grain were covered by the sale of the Heavenly Blood Horses, the reality was stark: the horses’ price had dropped a full forty percent, and massive shipments of cattle, sheep, iron ore, and hides were being sent to Qi. The grain and cloth that had once been considered gifts now had to be exchanged for the Heavenly Blood Horses.
Meng Xizhao had been watching them closely all along, fearing they would suddenly catch on—that his so-called “helpful solution” was really a scheme to take their prized symbols of fortune. Yet, astonishingly, not one of them had caught on.
Seizing the momentum, Meng Xizhao pressed them to put everything in writing.
This was not yet the official contract—the formal agreement would require the Tian Shou Emperor to send special envoys bearing the imperial seal to sign with the Xiongnu—but in this world of irrevocable signatures, once written here and stamped with the Left Worthy King’s seal, the agreement was essentially set.
If the Xiongnu were truly shameless and tried to back out after the formal procedure, it would no longer concern Meng Xizhao—by then, the people arriving would certainly not be him.
But the Xiongnu were unlikely to back out. After all, the Second Prince had already begun calculating how many cattle and sheep he could sell.
Meng Xizhao pressed his lips into a faint smile, holding the freshly completed mutual agreement, and returned to the Qi courier station.
As yesterday, a crowd was eagerly waiting.
He smiled at them, then took the sealed contract from his bosom.
Instantly, the courier station erupted in deafening cheers.
Meng Xizhao let them enjoy the moment, then urged: “Alright, there will be plenty of time to celebrate once we return home. At daybreak tomorrow, we depart. Now, everyone should go pack, so that we don’t scramble in the morning.”
Lu Fengqiu chuckled: “Lord Meng needn’t worry—we packed everything yesterday!”
Meng Xizhao paused in surprise, then simply shook his head with an amused smile.
For those at the station, knowing the princess would return with them was a relief—they understood that after such events, it was only natural to bring her back, though perhaps she would no longer be able to marry afterward.
But the new palace staff, hearing the news, burst into collective tears of joy, embracing each other regardless of familiarity.
In just two days, they had descended into despair and now soared into joy.
Upon seeing the sky, brighter than ever, they were grateful to the Crown Prince and Meng Shaoqing for not abandoning them, for not taking out their anger, and for bringing them home safely.
Once home, they vowed to burn incense and bathe daily, accumulating virtue and offering blessings to the Crown Prince and Meng Shaoqing.
At daybreak the next morning, the convoy lined up as it had over a month ago, but this time, everyone wore radiant smiles. Even those who had spent a sleepless night were alert and eager.
Dawn came late in Xiongnu territory; only at chen hour did it begin to lighten, while at mao hour, darkness still prevailed.
Seeing everyone so eager, and noticing the chill in the air, Meng Xizhao said to Ding Chun: “General Ding, let’s depart. Waiting any longer serves no purpose.”
Ding Chun glanced at the group behind him, their eyes shining like spotlights, and smiled. “Very well. Let’s go! Homeward!”
Immediately, the Qi soldiers echoed in response:
“Let’s go!”
“Returning home!”