Zhan Buxiu did not resemble his father all that much in appearance. Especially since his father had been in the army for over a decade—nine and a half of those years spent away from the capital, living a life exposed to wind and hardship. No matter how handsome a face was, it could not withstand that kind of wear and tear. He was nothing like Zhan Buxiu now, who carried the fresh, youthful air of a delicate young man.
But the problem was—this was Shang Xiguan.
Shang Xiguan and Zhan Shenyou both came from military families. They had known each other since childhood. Though not the closest of friends, their families had frequent contact. Later, they served in the same court and fought in wars together. Just in terms of life-saving favors alone, Shang Xiguan owed Zhan Shenyou three.
So it was not a question of whether Shang Xiguan would recognize Zhan Buxiu. When Zhan Buxiu was little, Shang Xiguan had even held him.
The moment Meng Xizhao saw Shang Xiguan suddenly stop, his heart skipped.
Shang Xiguan stared fixedly at Zhan Buxiu, his gaze growing more and more suspicious.
After all, ten years had passed. Even if he recognized him, he could hardly believe it right away.
Seeing this, Meng Xizhao discreetly tugged at Zang He’s sleeve, then smiled and said, “Lord Zang, let us walk a bit faster.”
Zang He froze for a moment. Though he did not understand, he still followed.
After quickening their pace, Meng Xizhao soon reached Shang Xiguan’s side. Then, in a deliberately audible voice, he said to Zang He, “Today’s court session is going to be lively. His Majesty ordered me to bring the newly developed weapon. It will be tested on the training grounds at White Tiger Gate. With this new weapon, Nanzhao will surely be beaten into utter defeat.”
Zang He: “…”
He was a civil official who had earned his degree as a top scholar—why was this being said to him?
Completely baffled, he listened as Meng Xizhao continued, “Once His Majesty sees its effectiveness, he will surely be overjoyed and dispatch troops. This time, victory upon return is practically guaranteed. The only question is—which general will claim the credit.”
To others nearby, it was tolerable. But to Zang He, it was painful—the palace walls were already quiet, and Meng Xizhao’s sudden loud voice made his ears ring.
Behind them, Shang Xiguan heard Meng Xizhao’s words. He paused, then instinctively followed.
On the other side, seeing that Shang Xiguan had finally moved away, Ding Chun let out a heavy sigh of relief.
He looked at Zhan Buxiu with concern, only to see that the latter kept his eyes lowered, showing little reaction.
Ding Chun pressed his lips together slightly.
The two children his senior brother had left behind—each one carried burdens far too heavy.
He was a rough man. He could see that both of them had things weighing on their hearts, but he did not know how to comfort them. At this moment, all he could do was firmly knead Zhan Buxiu’s shoulder. “Endure it.”
Zhan Buxiu lifted his eyes and glanced at him, but did not respond.
＊
Arriving at Chongzheng Hall, everyone took their positions according to rank. As for those about to receive rewards, they were led to a side hall to wait until summoned.
Meng Xizhao smiled at the attendant who guided them, then sat down on one of the chairs and calmly sipped his tea.
During this time, none of them spoke. Each was lost in their own thoughts. After taking a couple of sips, Meng Xizhao suddenly reached out and brushed at nonexistent dust on his knee.
He did it with great seriousness. Others glanced at him briefly before looking away.
But Zhan Buxiu watched the movement for a long time. Eventually, Meng Xizhao raised his head and happened to meet his gaze. Their eyes met briefly before parting again. Meng Xizhao lifted his teacup once more, while Zhan Buxiu frowned in irritation.
His fists clenched unconsciously—but only for a moment. He quickly forced himself to relax, returning to a blank expression.
He did not possess Meng Xizhao’s ability to say the right thing to the right person, adapting to anyone he met. Treating everyone with equal indifference was already the limit of what he could manage.
…
After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, an attendant finally came to summon them, announcing that His Majesty had called for their audience.
They immediately straightened, arranged themselves according to rank, and proceeded into the main hall.
The Emperor was in exceptionally good spirits today. Seeing the group of meritorious officials enter together, he smiled and said, “For this escort mission, all of you have rendered great service. Among you, the foremost merit belongs to Minister Meng. What say you, gentlemen?”
They had already discussed this beforehand. Hearing it now, none objected. They nodded and cupped their hands. “Your Majesty is wise.”
The Emperor was pleased. With a wave of his hand, he declared, “In that case, I appoint Meng Xizhao as Grand Master for Court Audiences, concurrently Editor of the Right Wen Hall. The formal post will be assigned after the new year. Meng Xizhao, do you accept?”
Meng Xizhao thought to himself: The way you ask it—could I possibly refuse and demand a higher position?
At once, he bowed deeply and said in a clear voice, “This subject accepts. I would brave ten thousand deaths without hesitation. I thank Your Majesty for your boundless grace!”
Standing to the side, Meng Jiuyu felt an overwhelming sense of pride.
Look—that was his son. No matter how exasperating he might be in private, in public, he brought nothing but honor!
What young gentleman, not even eighteen yet, could already hold a fourth-rank honorary post? That position of Right Wen Hall Editor might no longer carry real power now—just copying and drafting documents—but during the late emperor’s reign, it had been the essential stepping stone into the Secretariat-Chancellery. Anyone who became a Right Wen Hall Editor, so long as they did not ruin themselves afterward, was practically guaranteed to become a chancellor someday.
That was how his father saw it—and most others thought the same.
Barely in his teens… not even having reached the capping age, yet already promoted three ranks in succession, holding a nominal fourth-rank title. And from the emperor’s tone, after the new year he would be given an actual post. What time was the new year? It was when all officials submitted their performance reports. Whether stationed in the capital or posted elsewhere, all had to present their achievements—those with poor records were demoted, those with good ones promoted.
It was also the time of greatest personnel shifts and the most vacancies. For the emperor to insist on waiting until after the new year to assign him a post—it was obvious he intended to give him an excellent position.
A fourth-rank official in his teens—what would he be in his twenties? His thirties? Another Yan Shunying, perhaps.
The court was filled with mixed thoughts. Meanwhile, Meng Xizhao had already thanked the emperor, risen, and stepped aside to make room.
The Emperor of Tianshou continued, “Minister Lu rose to the occasion in a moment of crisis, and his performance on this journey was commendable. I recall you have already spent three years in the Ministry of Rites. It is time for your position to change. You are eloquent and composed even when facing Xiongnu officials—well suited to continue making use of such strengths. The post of Minister of the Court of Diplomatic Reception is currently vacant. You shall take it.”
Lu Fengqiu: “……”
Meng Xizhao had actually guessed it right.
Becoming Minister of the Court of Diplomatic Reception meant a direct promotion of two ranks. The only downside was that this position was easy for the emperor to forget—without making some truly outstanding contributions, it could take many years before any further movement.
Lu Fengqiu felt somewhat conflicted, but still obediently stepped forward to thank the emperor.
Next came Zang He. When he had previously delivered the good news, he had already received an honorary title. Now, the emperor filled his actual post as well: “There is a vacancy for a Director in the Ministry of Works. Minister Zang shall take that position.”
Zang He’s expression did not change. He bowed and gave thanks.
In truth, given Zang He’s qualifications, after leaving the Ministry of Rites he should have been assigned to a local post rather than continuing to rotate within the Six Ministries.
But who told him to have caught the emperor’s eye? The first time the emperor saw him, he was a third-place laureate. The second time, he brought back such excellent news. What did that mean? It meant he was auspicious! Naturally, the emperor wanted to keep him nearby and see him more often.
…A fortunate accident, really.
There was little room for advancement in the Ministry of Rites—too many rules, tangled factions, and few opportunities. But the Ministry of Works was different. It was a genuinely lucrative post. Whether honest officials or corrupt ones, everyone coveted positions there, eager to make their mark.
In the blink of an eye, the three civil officials had all been rewarded, leaving the surrounding officials full of envy, jealousy, and resentment.
They had only been gone two months. And from what the emperor had just said, their contributions had not even been that great—the spotlight had mostly been on Meng Xizhao. Yet now, one had risen three ranks with his future post yet to be assigned, while the other two had each jumped two ranks, rising together.
If only we had gone along too!
…
Yan Shunying glanced at the officials behind him, then turned back with a composed smile to look at the few standing in the center of attention.
Damn it—he was the one who felt like coughing up blood the most.
Lu Fengqiu he did not know well. Zang He and Meng Xizhao, he had never liked. Back then, grouping the three of them together had been meant to temper their sharpness—make them suffer along the way and learn who to respect and who not to offend.
And now? He had not seen any of their suffering—but he had certainly witnessed every bit of their rewards.
Regret!
If he had sent his own trusted people instead, would they not now be endlessly grateful to him? Even if he had not sent subordinates, he could have gone himself. Though he could no longer be promoted, with such merit he could have crushed that old fox Situ into the ground forever! And even Grand Tutor Gan would not dare to rely on seniority in front of him again!
But what was the use of hindsight now? It only added to his frustration.
Unable to bear watching any longer, Yan Shunying silently turned his head away—out of sight, out of mind.
Only to find that beside him, Situ Huan had his hands tucked in his sleeves, watching the spectacle like entertainment—who knew how long he had been staring.
When Yan Shunying turned, Situ Huan did not look away. Instead, he openly sized up his expression and let out an undisguised scoff.
Yan Shunying: “…………”
He really wanted to punch him.
…
With the civil officials rewarded, it was time for the military officers. There were only two of them, and one was an unfamiliar face.
As usual, the emperor first rewarded the higher-ranking one:
“General Ding protected the Crown Prince and Princess with merit, and faced the Xiongnu cavalry while leading from the front. It is a blessing for Great Qi to have such a general. I hereby appoint Ding Chun as Military Governor of Yingyang, concurrently Champion General, commanding one hundred thousand troops in Jiangnan, to await orders.”
The court’s reaction to Ding Chun’s reward was much milder.
Because anyone with sense could see that Ding Chun would eventually return to Nanzhao. The hundred thousand troops of Jiangnan—regardless of merit—would have to be returned to him anyway.
As for the title of Military Governor of Yingyang, the lessons left behind by the Tang Dynasty had been too severe. In this dynasty, as well as in the Yue dynasty and even the fragmented regimes before them, everyone had tacitly agreed to strip real power from military governors. By now, it was merely an honorary title—like certain court ranks—sounding impressive and carrying an additional stipend.
Still, it was the highest honorary title a military officer could receive—its prestige roughly equivalent to Grand Tutor or Grand Protector among civil officials.
As for Champion General… there was little to say. It was on the same level as General of Huaihua—just that “Champion General” sounded more impressive. It was not really a promotion, just a change in title for Ding Chun.
Compared to the others, Ding Chun’s reward was indeed underwhelming. Once he stepped down, all eyes turned to the unfamiliar young officer.
He was reportedly a commander, one of Ding Chun’s subordinates. Because he had distinguished himself so prominently against the Xiongnu, he was exceptionally allowed into the hall this time.
Everyone was curious about what reward the Emperor of Tianshou might grant him. Meanwhile, Shang Xiguan’s forehead began to bead with cold sweat.
He hadn’t paid attention to the earlier rewards at all, his gaze fixed entirely on Zhan Buxiu, comparing him to the boy he remembered. Age seemed about right, appearance roughly similar—but… it couldn’t be.
How many brains did Ding Chun have, daring to bring Zhan Shenyou’s son before the emperor? Didn’t he fear the trouble it might bring?
And it was just his luck. Shang Xiguan had been staying in the barracks recently, rarely returning to the imperial capital. He’d been living a dull, indulgent life at home with his concubines, eating and sleeping with the regularity of a pig. Even the news of the Xiongnu Chanyu’s death barely registered.
Until now, he realized how enormous a mistake he had made.
Panic surged, yet he couldn’t be certain. He wanted to ask someone, but his place at the front row, last spot, made it awkward to whisper. There were only two people nearby. The Right Chancellor was of a different faction, barely speaking with him; behind him was a prince in charge of the royal clan, usually a filler at court, whom he couldn’t talk to either.
So now, he couldn’t even find anyone to ask the young man’s name.
In his fluster, he instinctively looked to another person: the Grand Secretary Geng Wenjin, standing beside Meng Jiuyu, looking at Zhan Buxiu with the same indifferent expression as everyone else.
Shang Xiguan: “…………”
If you knew who he was, could you still look so unconcerned?
Geng Wenjin was a civil official. The young officer had only recently been transferred to the Grand Secretariat. Even he, having spent time in the Six Ministries, didn’t know much about military officers. He barely knew Zhan Shenyou, let alone his son. Names meant nothing to him—he had no impression.
If a person had done nothing wrong, they wouldn’t be so afraid of ghosts knocking on doors. Shang Xiguan feigned calm, but inside he was panicking, racking his brain for solutions. He didn’t notice that Meng Xizhao, after stepping aside, was quietly keeping an eye on him.
He couldn’t be sure. Shang Xiguan had clearly recognized Zhan Buxiu—would he make a scene?
That was unpredictable. If Shang Xiguan publicly revealed Zhan Buxiu’s identity now, the Emperor of Tianshou would certainly be displeased. A perfect day would be ruined, and the punishment would fall on him. Doing so would harm more than it helped—most people wouldn’t dare. But Shang Xiguan had a reason to risk it… and a very strong one at that.
…
Shang Xiguan stared at Zhan Buxiu, while Meng Xizhao watched Shang Xiguan. The predator-prey chain was forming. Meanwhile, the Emperor had already summoned Zhan Buxiu forward.
Observing Zhan Buxiu’s robust figure, the emperor felt both envy and satisfaction: “Not bad. By your appearance alone, I can see you are a born general. What is your name?”
Zhan Buxiu lowered his head, ignoring the emperor above, and replied: “Your servant, Zhan Buxiu.”
Shang Xiguan’s eyes widened.
It was really him.
The emperor chuckled, finding the name interesting: “Buxiu… hmm, a good name, full of spirit.”
Shang Xiguan’s face went blank, then suddenly stiffened, as if making a decision. He stepped forward. The Right Chancellor looked on in mild curiosity, but Meng Xizhao quickly stepped aside, taking the lead: “Your Majesty, Commander Zhan carries something even more impressive.”
Shang Xiguan froze mid-step.
“…?”
The emperor, curious, asked, “Oh? What is that?”
Meng Xizhao pointed to Zhan Buxiu’s empty waist: “It is the sword Commander Zhan wielded. Perhaps Your Majesty recalls: he defeated the Xiongnu crown prince with a single move, and not only defeated him, but broke the prince’s treasured sword, crafted at great cost from the Yuezhi.”
The emperor blinked, then asked eagerly: “What kind of sword did the crown prince use?”
Meng Xizhao replied: “It was the Bailian Steel, forged by Yuezhi craftsmen stolen from our own.”
The emperor reacted instantly, thrilled: “So the new item you said your estate has been developing… this is it?”
Meng Xizhao smiled sheepishly: “Indeed. I had intended to invite Your Majesty to inspect my estate on a propitious day. But now that Commander Zhan is already present in the hall, I thought—why not present both the sword and the hand-thunder device today?”
He had already planned the demonstration of the hand-thunder for today, but the new steel he had intended to save for later, luring the emperor to his estate first to extract some benefit.
No matter. Benefits could wait. Now, the priority was to seal Shang Xiguan’s mouth.
Zhan Buxiu’s identity was a ticking bomb—it would eventually explode, but absolutely not before the rewards ceremony, and not from Shang Xiguan’s lips.
The emperor ordered Qin Feimang to retrieve Zhan Buxiu’s sword. Meng Xizhao could not simply wait idly—if Shang Xiguan found a chance, he would act.
Meng Xizhao felt his oratory skills improving by leaps and bounds. Previously, he needed notes; now, he could speak fluently off the cuff.
…
The hand-thunder and the new steel—Meng Xizhao even coined a name on the spot: “Thousand-Hammer Steel.” His extravagant explanations, filled with ancient-style technical terminology, left the emperor and the assembled officials awestruck. At that moment, Qin Feimang returned with Zhan Buxiu’s sword.
When the Emperor of Tianshou held the sword in his hands, at first glance it didn’t seem much different from ordinary weapons. But when he hefted it, he immediately felt it was heavier than standard Bailian steel.
The emperor, who dreamt nightly of winning battles, knew a thing or two about weapons. The moment he held it, he could tell it was high-quality steel—though probably not practical for mass production. Not everyone had the strength to wield it effectively. Generals and elite soldiers could use this “Thousand-Hammer Steel,” but ordinary troops would still have to rely on the old Bailian steel.
Regardless, it was a new type of military weapon, increasing the army’s chances against Nanzhao. The emperor was delighted and magnanimously upgraded the young officer’s reward:
“Excellent sword! So brave at such a young age. I grant you the rank of Youji General, commanding five thousand elite soldiers under General Ding. In the future, follow General Ding’s example and slay more Nanzhao barbarians!”
“Youji General” was the lowest rank of general, but this was already quite a promotion. Originally, the emperor had planned to give Zhan Buxiu a mere colonel rank, keeping him in the army to gain experience. Now, even the lowest generalship allowed him independent command—and others could formally call him “General Zhan.”
Shang Xiguan’s mind buzzed. No! Zhan Buxiu could never be allowed into the court!
Earlier, exposing Zhan Buxiu’s identity would have been a costly blow to the enemy but manageable for himself. Now, after the emperor had already granted the reward, revealing the truth would only result in a loss for himself—an even higher risk.
But Shang Xiguan was determined. No matter the danger, the Zhan family could not rise again, and Zhan Shenyou’s son must never appear before the emperor!
With resolute determination, he stepped forward, willing to risk the emperor’s wrath to expose Zhan Buxiu. Meng Xizhao glanced at him, then at Zhan Buxiu still kneeling.
Shang Xiguan raised his hands and began: “Your Ma—”
Before he could finish, a sudden thud—Zhan Buxiu knelt.
A man of steel resolve, his kneeling caused a startling noise that shocked everyone. The emperor, initially curious about Shang Xiguan’s advance, instinctively looked back at Zhan Buxiu. Unlike the previous four recipients, he knelt first, leaving everyone puzzled.
Then Zhan Buxiu spoke loudly: “I thank Your Majesty for your favor, but I am the son of a guilty minister. I am unworthy of your trust and recognition. I beg Your Majesty to revoke this appointment!”
Shang Xiguan: “…………”
Why wasn’t he following the usual protocol?
Everyone else was equally dumbfounded. “Guilty minister? What guilty minister?” they thought.
Geng Wenjin, standing beside Meng Jiuyu, was suddenly shocked.
The emperor now asked: “Son of a guilty minister… who is your father?”
Zhan Buxiu lowered his head and answered loudly: “My father is Zhan Shenyou.”
The hall erupted.
Not only Geng Wenjin, but everyone was wide-eyed. Even Meng Jiuyu’s mouth fell open, though half a second later he recalled something and looked at his son.
Meng Xizhao, stunned, clutched his mouth, blinking as if in shock, then shakily pointed at Zhan Buxiu: “You… you…”
Meng Jiuyu: “…………”
He was no longer the man easily overwhelmed by anger. At this moment, he even had the presence of mind to assess his son: well-acted. In public, the performance was subtle enough not to attract attention, but privately, if he kept it up, it might expose the act.
Meanwhile, the name Zhan Shenyou hit the court like a piece of fried chicken dropped into hot oil, instantly boiling the hall into chaos. For a moment, the Chongzheng Hall resembled a bustling pre-holiday market, except that now, the uproar centered on a man long thought dead.
The ministers were stunned, but the emperor remained calm—or at least, as calm as one could appear. In truth, he was shocked too, but he managed to mask it.
When Zhan Shenyou had been executed, the emperor, following the advice of Grand Tutor Gan, had spared his family. Orphans and widows were to be left alive, showing his benevolence. In the decree, it was explicitly stated: “The crime does not extend to the family.”
So the Zhan family had survived, and now one of them stood before the emperor.
Even facing the son of the man he had executed—under an outrageous charge—the emperor felt no guilt. Zhan Shenyou had wronged him; as ruler of the realm, he was justified.
Yet, a subtle feeling lingered. Zhan Shenyou had been a rare, exceptional general. And now his son was equally formidable—why did all the good fortune seem to favor the Zhan family?
The hall remained chaotic. Frowning, the emperor bellowed: “Silence!”
“What is this shouting?!”
With a snap, the hall fell silent. Even Meng Xizhao bowed his head, trembling like everyone else. The emperor, observing their fear, felt pleased. Good. That was how it should be.
Finally, he looked down at Zhan Buxiu, still kneeling.
“I took your father’s life. Do you not resent me?”
Meng Xizhao lowered his head, heart racing.
The hall fell completely silent. For a long while, only Zhan Buxiu’s voice broke the stillness, drifting slowly through the tense air:
“My father deserved his fate. I have never held resentment against anyone.”
Meng Xizhao pressed his lips together. His heart seemed to descend slowly—but never landing, always falling, as if about to plunge into an abyss.
He had told countless lies in the past; to achieve a goal, he could have pretended to be friendly with an enemy or even poured out a heartfelt confession without a second thought. Yet now, standing here, hearing Zhan Buxiu speak the lie he had been instructed to tell, Meng Xizhao felt an unfamiliar, uncomfortable knot in his chest.
Above, the Emperor of Tianshou suddenly laughed, though no one could tell why. The sound was enigmatic, leaving everyone guessing his thoughts. After a moment, he spoke:
“Your father disappointed me, but I hope you will not fail to meet my expectations.”
The meaning was clear—he would not rescind the appointment. The words were spoken; Zhan Buxiu would remain a Youji General.
Hearing this, Zhan Buxiu immediately bowed in thanks. Kneeling, his gesture became a full kowtow to the emperor. Tianshou did not signal him to rise. He simply watched, as if testing whether Zhan Buxiu truly harbored no resentment. The hall was so quiet that even the fall of a needle could have been heard.
Yet there were no needles falling—only one man prostrated, performing the humblest of gestures known to the Daqi people.
No one dared to speak against Zhan Buxiu’s identity. The emperor’s stance was clear: he did not care. As long as Zhan Buxiu remained prudent, it did not matter that he was the son of Zhan Shenyou.
Still, the emperor’s mood had been slightly soured by the earlier events. The rewards ceremony concluded, and Tianshou had initially intended to dismiss court and return to his consorts to lift his spirits. But remembering that Meng Xizhao was to demonstrate his hand-thunder device, he had Qin Feimang announce the dismissal and then personally escorted Meng Xizhao to the White Tiger Gate.
Originally, he considered taking several high officials, at least including Grand Secretary Geng Wenjin, but in his irritated mood, he changed his mind and went alone.
Meng Xizhao dared not act frivolously. Whatever the emperor wanted to see, he demonstrated fully and honestly. The emperor, sensing his genuine fear, dispelled any lingering suspicion.
Meng Xizhao was not the only one returning from the Xiongnu expedition. The emperor had another attendant describe their experiences. At first, Meng Xizhao treated Zhan Buxiu as a mere servant, but gradually he recognized his capability and began to value him as a commander.
Indeed, Meng Xizhao and Zhan Buxiu were mortal enemies. The entire world believed Meng Jiuyu had caused Zhan Shenyou’s death, and Zhan Buxiu surely thought the same. They could not have known each other beforehand.
Thus, it was audacious of General Ding: he not only brought Zhan Buxiu close, making him a commander, but also allowed him to achieve merit in the field.
Tianshou’s reasoning might have been irrational, but who could stop him?
The hand-thunder demonstration briefly improved the emperor’s mood, though not to the morning’s heights. Afterward, he summoned the craftsmen with Meng Xizhao and returned to the palace.
The next day, he gathered his top ministers, consulted the timing, and issued the imperial decree. Ding Chun was to prepare and lead his army to Jiangzhou in three days, rest there, and then launch a campaign against Nanzhao.
Meng Xizhao: “…Truly lacking in decency.”
Years of New Year celebrations would be disrupted. Not only Ding Chun but also Zhan Buxiu and a hundred thousand troops were bound for the front. One imperial command, and no one could return home. Some might not even survive to see the holiday.
The order was abrupt and urgent, leaving almost no time to react. Yet, what was the hurry? Nanzhao remained in place, winter held sway, and the timing hardly mattered.
Meng Xizhao pondered and concluded: the emperor was deliberately making life difficult for Ding Chun. He resented Ding’s reckless promotion of Zhan Buxiu, and so the emperor chose to stir trouble for both.
Meng Xizhao had long known Tianshou to be petty.
Ding Chun bid farewell to his family, and Zhan Buxiu quickly packed. Before departure, Meng Xizhao invited him to a meal at Bu Xiantian.
In Meng Xizhao’s private chamber, Zhan Buxiu was only the third guest ever admitted. He poured the finest wine and offered a cup: “I wish you a victorious campaign and swift success.”
Zhan Buxiu, unfamiliar with the phrase, tasted it with a faint smile: “First time hearing such words—quite interesting.”
Both phrases came from Yuan drama, not common parlance. Meng Xizhao smiled: “It is my good wish—and also a lucky omen for you.”
“General Zhan, may you return safely.”
At the words “General Zhan,” Zhan Buxiu’s lips twitched. He lifted his cup, lightly clinking it against Meng Xizhao’s: “I will not fail my duty.”
Finishing the drink, he paused. “Once I leave, I may not return for a year or more. My grandfather…”
He hesitated before mentioning his sister, sensing it might be inappropriate to entrust her to Meng Xizhao. Meng Xizhao waved him off: “No need to say it—and don’t rely on me. After the New Year, I will depart, and I can’t help. When you return, I will have my sister keep an eye on her. She is your sister’s messenger now; it will be easier for her to move about.”
In truth, there was likely nothing for him to worry about at home. His grandfather was elderly, Ah Hu was a young lady, and no one was really keeping watch—yet his mind still lingered on them. Hearing Meng Xizhao’s words, he felt considerably reassured. Then, after a pause, realization struck him.
“You’re leaving Yingtian Prefecture after the New Year?”
Meng Xizhao held his cup of wine, silent for a moment, before replying with a nod: “Yes.”
Zhan Buxiu was a little taken aback. “We’ve just returned from the Xiongnu, and you still want to leave?”
Meng Xizhao contemplated briefly before answering: “I used to think I could accomplish more within Yingtian Prefecture, and that one adventure was enough. I’m still young; no need to rush for glory.”
Zhan Buxiu furrowed his brow. “And now you think differently?”
Meng Xizhao turned to him with a faint smile. “Exactly. I’ve changed my mind.”
Being in Yingtian Prefecture had its advantages: close proximity to the Emperor of Tianshou, freedom to act, yet his rank was too low to fully capitalize on it. He was constantly under observation, especially after his triple promotion—more eyes than ever were upon him.
So it was better to leave, find a place without prying eyes, and seriously consider his next steps. Pleasing the emperor was no longer enough; he wanted to influence, even control him, so that he would no longer witness the innocent being forced to bear guilt, and so that every glance upward wouldn’t be met with darkness.