On the twenty-seventh day of the eleventh month in the fifteenth year of Tianshou, Ding Chun led the Jiangnan army on campaign, marching toward Nanzhao.
On the twenty-eighth, Meng Xizhao exchanged the black official pouch representing his post as Junior Minister of the Honglu Temple for a silver one, hanging it at his waist.
By imperial regulation, only officials of fifth rank or above could wear a silver pouch. Meng Xizhao, now wearing it himself, felt little initially. Madam Meng personally adjusted his official hat and then stepped back, gazing proudly at his appearance.
Meng Xizhao, embarrassed under her scrutiny, said, “Mother, I’m old enough now—let me handle these small matters myself.”
Madam Meng arched an eyebrow. “Old enough or not, you’re still my son.” She smoothed nonexistent creases on his robe, sighing: “Seeing you like this today… it’s the sort of dream I never dared to imagine.”
Meng Xizhao chuckled: “You set the bar too low before, mother. ‘Eat idly and wait to die’—that was the goal you gave me.”
Madam Meng: “…You child, always speaking the blunt truth!”
She glared at him, and Meng Xizhao immediately softened, offering her a pleasing smile, far removed from the stubborn, irritating demeanor he displayed before Meng Jiuyu.
After all, she controlled the household finances. If he wanted extra pocket money in the future, he’d have to rely on her favor.
Seeing his smile, Madam Meng’s expression eased slightly. She handed him a pouch of loose gold, meant for settling matters with superiors and colleagues that day.
Meng Xizhao weighed the pouch, inwardly amused. At most, he’d pull out a small sum for a meal with colleagues; the rest, he could reserve for other matters.
Madam Meng wanted to give further instructions, but once the gold was in his hands, Meng Xizhao insisted he was busy and already running late, effectively sidestepping her motherly lecture.
Madam Meng: “….”
Watching his hurried departure, she felt slightly unsettled. She sat down, brows lightly furrowed.
After a while, Meng Jiao Jiao came over, greeting, “Mother,” then listlessly seated herself at the table, sipping tea.
Madam Meng raised her phoenix-like eyes, noticing her youngest daughter’s weary expression. “What did you do last night?”
Meng Jiao Jiao pouted: “Embroidered a handkerchief. Ah Hu’s birthday is coming; I wanted to gift her one I made myself.”
Madam Meng: “….”
Ever since Zhan Buxiu’s identity was revealed in court, Meng Jiao Jiao had breathed a complete sigh of relief. She no longer hid it, telling the family that she had a handkerchief friend—also surnamed Zhan—the daughter of General Zhan Shenyou.
The Meng couple’s emotions were complex. Zhan Shenyou was not a taboo for them, yet past events had rendered his name almost unspeakable, mentioned only reluctantly.
Meng Jiuyu and Madam Meng had never shared the details with their three children. Yet, like certain aspects of physical maturity, even unspoken truths are understood in time. Meng Xiangao knew the family history, recognized his father’s injustice, but could do nothing—accepting it quietly.
Who could have imagined the rebellious Meng Xizhao? He had returned from the Xiongnu with a convoy of over four hundred alive and well—already astonishing to the Meng couple. Now they realized they had underestimated him: he had known Zhan Buxiu beforehand, fought alongside him, and formed a bond far deeper than ordinary friendship.
Meng Jiuyu could not fathom it.
Was there anything in the world that could stop his second son? Even mortal enemies like Zhan Buxiu could be turned into allies. This boy… was extraordinary.
Though the older generation of both families had their grudges, Meng Jiuyu did not see himself as a victim.
They were educated in the classics—surely he knew what those whispers and schemes from ten years ago had meant. Ignoring it would make one complicit. Meng Jiuyu would not hypocritically regret, “If only I could have helped General Zhan,” nor shamelessly imagine himself innocent.
Zhan Shenyou’s death had benefited many. Meng Jiuyu had gained the emperor’s trust, walked a path to titles and high office, and borne the blame—a small price for his ascent.
The man had eaten the “blood bun”—he was part of this colossal injustice—and now Meng Jiuyu felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t even dare question Meng Xizhao about how he had come to know Zhan Buxiu; he could only sigh inwardly. Such is the cycle of generations: grudges rarely carry fully to the next. And looking at Zhan Buxiu, a natural-born general, befriending his son might even prove advantageous one day.
Stimulated by Meng Xizhao’s actions, Meng Jiuyu was growing increasingly helpless. He couldn’t even manage the Crown Prince’s affairs, and this matter he was even less inclined to interfere with. He resolved to pretend ignorance and let Meng Xizhao do as he pleased.
Yet Madam Meng had a different opinion.
Previously, she had hardly cared what Meng Xizhao did outside the home, but now she felt she could no longer remain uninvolved. She didn’t know the details of the Crown Prince’s affairs, but seeing Meng Xizhao and Zhan Buxiu growing close sounded alarm bells in her mind. She had an inkling: her second son was aiming for something major. Otherwise, why involve Jiao Jiao, and deliberately make her a handkerchief friend with Zhan’s young lady? Clearly, he intended to strengthen ties between their families.
Meng Xizhao: “…I really wasn’t thinking that way.”
Whether he thought so or not didn’t matter; Madam Meng had made up her mind. She knew that as a woman, no matter how well she managed business, she couldn’t truly help her second son in the political arena. But doing nothing and watching him charge ahead alone was also unacceptable.
After much deliberation, Madam Meng decided there was only one thing she could do to assist her son:
Find him a wife from a powerful family.
……
Meng Xizhao had no idea his mother had already set her sights on his future marriage.
Currently, Meng Xizhao held a concurrent post as a Junior Compiler in the Right Literary Hall, though his daily work wasn’t in the Right Literary Hall—it was in the Hanlin Academy.
The empire had several scholarly offices, and the Hanlin Academy ranked second in prestige. Unlike later generations, these academies didn’t focus on scholarship; all officials were essentially imperial secretaries.
There was only one emperor, but around twenty secretaries, each with their own assistants. With so many literati together, it was like gathering as many consorts in one place—daily, several little dramas unfolded.
When he first went to the Honglu Temple, Meng Xizhao had devoted energy to securing alliances, bringing everyone into his fold. Here, he had no such intention.
For one, could he even bribe these self-important old scholars with lavish meals? Even if he could, it would be useless.
He wasn’t taking the path of civil officials, but that of cunning and favored ministers. These men would have been perplexed to favor him, and even if he tried, Yan Shunying, entrenched for nearly thirty years, would have surely intervened. Could he really watch Meng Xizhao buy influence in the Hanlin Academy?
So, better to stay low, keep quiet, and simply endure the next few months. After all, this was just a side post; his presence or absence made little difference.
The officials of the Hanlin Academy treated him politely, giving him some official documents to copy for the archives. Meng Xizhao’s handwriting had improved significantly—not yet elegant, but at least not laughable. Sitting at his desk, diligently copying documents, he earned silent nods from the others.
This young man was currently the hottest figure in court. Yan Xianggong remarked that he wouldn’t be here long—no need to offend or ingratiate, just let him pass quietly. Both sides tacitly agreed, and Meng Xizhao felt somewhat flattered.
So being posted at the Hanlin Academy was surprisingly pleasant: everyone did their own work, no scheming, no intrigue. He almost didn’t want to leave. Thankfully, others couldn’t hear his thoughts, or they would have shown him an even “better” side of themselves.
……
After work, Meng Xizhao didn’t immediately return home. Instead, he strolled outside the East Hua Gate with Qingfu.
The twelfth month was approaching, the New Year near, and the marketplace was bustling, with far more variety than usual. Meng Xizhao wandered casually from stall to stall, buying nothing. Qingfu asked, puzzled: “Sir, what exactly are you looking to buy?”
Meng Xizhao hummed and stopped at a jewelry stall, picking up a roughly crafted silver hairpin in the shape of a plum blossom. “Does this look nice?” he asked.
Qingfu shook his head honestly. “Not really. If you give this to the young lady, she’ll surely scold you for insulting her.”
Meng Xizhao: “…Who said I’m giving it to Jiao Jiao?”
Qingfu blinked. “Then to Sister Jin Zhu? Sir, I’m just saying—Sister Jin Zhu works hard by your side. If you’re finally going to gift her something, at least make it slightly expensive. Even five taels of silver would be fine. This hairpin won’t cost more than one or two.”
Before Meng Xizhao could respond, the stall owner snapped: “Don’t want it? Get lost! Mess around again, and I’ll beat you!”
Meng Xizhao: “….”
Qingfu: “….”
They silently put the hairpin down and left, heading to a quiet teahouse. Meng Xizhao ordered hot tea and had Qingfu sit as well.
Meng Xizhao asked, “Tell me, back home, was there ever a girl you were betrothed to, or one you’d never forget at first sight?”
Qingfu blushed, stammering: “Sir… why do you ask? I… I came to Yingtian Prefecture at six. My father said to serve you diligently first. Once you married a lady, he would seek a wife for me too, so that we could serve you together as husband and wife.”
Meng Xizhao: “……So that’s what you were waiting for.
In that case, you’ll probably end up like me, alone your whole life.”
The tea arrived. Meng Xizhao held the cup and sighed softly. “Well, it seems you can’t help either.”
Qingfu finally shook off his shyness and asked hesitantly, “Sir, what do you intend to do? Even if I don’t understand, you could explain first—maybe I can find someone who does.”
Meng Xizhao, like a little old man, cupped his tea and winked at him. He thought Qingfu had a point and said, “It’s like this: I want to ask someone for help, and to do that, I need to appeal to his tastes. When he was young, he admired a certain woman, but she passed away. I want to give him a gift that touches him from that perspective. What do you think I should give?”
Qingfu froze for a moment, then laughed. “Sir, this isn’t something you should ask me—you should ask Master and the Eldest Young Master. They have experience.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
It was precisely because he didn’t want to ask them that he was consulting his little servant.
He had never loved anyone before, and no matter how much theory he knew, it could easily become paper talk. His father and elder brother were extremely experienced and utterly devoted—the perfect advisers.
But he didn’t want their input. He had a feeling that if he asked, even without probing who the gift was for, they would inevitably steer the conversation to himself, urging him to settle down and become a dutiful husband, just like them.
……
Never mind. He would decide for himself.
＊
On the first day of the twelfth lunar month, Meng Xizhao left the city to pay respects at the temple.
He had promised the Tian Shou Emperor that he would offer a perpetual lamp, but several months had passed without visiting. Today, he needed to mark his attendance and show his face.
Outside the hall where the lamp was kept stood a young acolyte waiting for payment.
Meng Xizhao tightened his lips, and with some regret, handed over a large sum. A hefty amount flowed straight into the coffers of Jiming Temple.
As he was leaving, he couldn’t resist lecturing the young acolyte: “Repairing temples and casting golden Buddhas is a small act of virtue. True goodness lies in relieving suffering. A thousand strikes on a wooden fish aren’t as valuable as a single bundle of herbs; chanting sutras for the deceased is not as great as helping an orphaned child.”
The boy, barely thirteen or fourteen, froze at his words.
Meng Xizhao paused, realizing he might have overdone it, and quickly added with a smile: “These are just reflections from my study of the sutras. My family says I have no affinity with Buddha. Don’t mind me, little one—just treat it as nonsense.”
He clasped his hands in parting, bowed lightly, and hurried down the steps.
Qingfu watched the whole scene, and as they walked along the mountain path, he shook his head in disbelief. “Sir, that was five hundred taels of silver—you usually spend that on a single meal.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
He knew. But he couldn’t help himself!
At the Department of Participation, he lived the indulgent life of princes and ministers. A single lychee roast duck for Meng Jiao Jiao would cost ten to twenty taels. Five hundred taels for temple offerings wasn’t much for people like them—but the thought that it was done in the Emperor’s name made it feel priceless.
Enough—thinking about it only made him more reluctant to part with the money.
Quickening his pace, Meng Xizhao headed toward the back mountain, following the path from memory. Soon, he reached a familiar gate.
After gently knocking, Yu Fulan opened the door.
Seeing Meng Xizhao, Yu Fulan smiled. “Compiler Meng, Your Highness is inside reading.”
Meng Xizhao returned a polite smile and stepped in, leaving Qingfu outside, exchanging wide-eyed looks with Yu Fulan.
The temple courtyard had no underground heating, only firepans. Meng Xizhao, sensitive to heat and cold, often preferred standing in the sun rather than sitting inside in the draft.
Cui Ye, even more sensitive to cold, had several firepans lit, but warmth was limited. Keeping the fires going required the windows to remain slightly open, letting smoke escape.
Seeing him enter, Cui Ye closed his book and looked up with a faint smile. “Second Brother.”
Meng Xizhao glanced at him, then walked over and sat down. “Ten days without seeing Your Highness… I find it strange, I’m not used to it yet.”
Cui Ye tilted his head. “Second Brother, are you really surprised? I am far more unsettled when I don’t see you for a day.”
Cui Ye’s clingy speech had been ongoing for days now. Meng Xizhao laughed and deftly brushed the comment aside.
Scanning the room, he asked, “Why haven’t I seen Guard Zhang?”
Cui Ye didn’t notice anything unusual. He set aside his book and smiled at Meng Xizhao. “He went on duty, saying he must find someone capable of curing an old ailment. He won’t return for a while.”
Meng Xizhao froze. He hadn’t expected Zhang Shuogong to be doing this.
Though he had intended to avoid the topic, he couldn’t help commenting. “Your Highness, Guard Zhang is utterly loyal to you.”
Cui Ye’s lips curved slightly, pausing.
It seemed he had caught something in Meng Xizhao’s words.
Meng Xizhao continued: “Your Highness, it is good to reward or punish those loyal to you. But regarding the severity of the punishment… please do not take offense. I only heard that Zhang Shuogong’s punishment involved me. I don’t want to see Your Highness and him estranged because of me.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Cui Ye’s expression was unreadable. Meng Xizhao, in turn, was momentarily stunned before a subtle look crossed his face.
…Something feels off. Why does Cui Ye sound all clingy and mushy now?
Meng Xizhao’s face darkened. He was a grown man—how could he be uttering lines fit for a female lead!
…
Cui Ye’s voice brought him back to focus: “Second Brother, where did you hear about this?”
Meng Xizhao blinked, without hesitation, and spilled the beans: “From Second Young Master Xie. He often goes to Bu Xun Tian. That day he happened to run into me, said he wanted to make amends, and invited me to a meal.”
Cui Ye: “Then he told you about this?”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Oh no—now he wasn’t just speaking like a female lead; he’d accidentally acted like a scheming side character too.
He had no intention of ratting on Xie Yun. He genuinely didn’t want to get entangled in the complicated relationships between the Crown Prince and the Xie family.
He quickly explained: “It’s not what Your Highness thinks… We were just drinking and chatting. Somehow the topic came up, and he…”
Recalling that day, Meng Xizhao wracked his brain to defend Xie Yun. In the end, he came up with: “He just wanted me to understand how good Your Highness has been to me.”
Cui Ye froze, then slowly pursed his lips.
Meng Xizhao had no idea why he suddenly went silent, but it seemed Cui Ye wasn’t angry anymore. He smiled: “Second Young Master Xie is truly a clever fellow. I tricked him once, and he still had the courage to seek me out. Not for himself, but for his father, brothers, and for Your Highness. No matter what, he’s naturally a good person.”
After a long pause, Cui Ye simply gave a faint, approving “hm.”
If Xie Yun had been present, he would have probably burst into tears.
This was the first time the Crown Prince had given their family direct praise.
…
The other day’s reward ceremony had passed without the Crown Prince attending. Normally he would go to court, but that day he claimed illness, as was his habit. People were used to it.
Meng Xizhao, however, felt a twinge of regret: “Your Highness, if you had been there that day, the Emperor would surely have given you some reward.”
Cui Ye: “Even if so, it would just be gold, silver, and jewels. Such gifts are less useful than saving them for something more valuable in the future.”
Meng Xizhao looked at him, surprised.
Just a moment ago, Cui Ye had spoken with the calm, detached air of a sage, but now that same sage was secretly anxious, locking eyes with Meng Xizhao—only he knew the unease in his heart.
Meng Xizhao blinked slowly, then smiled again. “Your Highness is quite the strategist.”
Cui Ye’s heart steadied. Looking at Meng Xizhao, he too smiled: “Learned from Second Brother.”
Meng Xizhao waved embarrassedly and moved on to another topic.
On the first day of the lunar month, Cui Ye’s condition fluctuated. Even at his better moments, Meng Xizhao avoided serious topics to prevent worsening his illness. Instead, he spoke of local happenings and amusing stories.
For example, the Grand Academician of Hanlin Hall appeared upright and aloof, with the demeanor of a learned scholar, but he actually suffered from gastritis. Sitting at his post, he never stopped farting or hiccupping—no wonder he rarely attended court, and the Emperor only consulted the Academician of Guanwen Hall for matters.
Or how Meng Xizhao had recently become a local celebrity in Yingtian Prefecture. Some teahouses had even crafted storytelling segments about his clever dealings with the Xiongnu. When he went to listen, his face turned bright red.
The legendary Meng Shaoqing portrayed there had almost nothing to do with him personally. The stories painted him leaping over rooftops and tunneling through mountains—practically superhuman.
Cui Ye smiled knowingly: “The people clearly admire you. Second Brother must be pleased.”
Meng Xizhao muttered: “It’s so exaggerated it’s no longer about ‘admiration’ for me. I’m thinking—next time I should write the stories myself and have them performed. This is Yingtian Prefecture, after all. If the Emperor were to go incognito and hear of my so-called superpowers… if he took it seriously, how could I ever justify it?”
His teasing words hinted at worrying about the Emperor being jealous of his popularity.
Cui Ye smiled faintly: “You’ve thought this through. You need not concern yourself; I’ll handle it.”
Meng Xizhao froze. “Ah? But the stories…”
Cui Ye: “No matter, I will write them.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Was it appropriate for a Crown Prince to labor over writing fanciful tales just to boost someone’s popularity? Yet Cui Ye insisted, and Meng Xizhao happily let it go. After all, he was not a literati; composing stories required talent, while he struggled even with writing a simple couplet.
Seeing him agree, Cui Ye smiled, then asked: “Second Brother just mentioned going to the teahouse. What did you originally intend to do there?”
Meng Xizhao responded with an “oh”: “I wanted to buy a gift.”
Cui Ye paused slightly. “A gift… for whom?”
Could it be for him?
It wasn’t strange he thought so. If Meng Xizhao moved to give gifts, it normally wouldn’t be for himself, but rather prearranged by Meng Furen. Only when it was a genuine personal matter, or unrelated to social obligations, would he personally think through it and humbly select it.
Zhan Buxiu had already gone on campaign. In Yingtian Prefecture, the only person Meng Xizhao would personally bother to visit was himself.
Cui Ye’s eyes brightened, but Meng Xizhao, unaware, sighed and said: “There’s someone I want to ask for help. He’s stubborn and difficult to please. I want to appeal to his tastes, but I haven’t been able to find the right gift.”
Cui Ye fell silent, swallowing the disappointment he felt. He adjusted his mindset and asked, “What would be the right gift for that person?”
Meng Xizhao repeated to Cui Ye exactly what he had told Qingfu that day. He didn’t expect any real advice—after all, Cui Ye, like himself, was a naturally solitary man.
But Cui Ye, upon hearing Meng Xizhao’s request, paused for a moment. Almost immediately, he envisioned the perfect gift.
To be sure, he asked Meng Xizhao, “Do you want him to realize that you deliberately chose this gift?”
Meng Xizhao looked slightly puzzled. “Of course not. If he discovers that I know his secret, he’ll be furious. The ideal scenario is that he likes the gift, but believes I have no idea he would.”
Cui Ye chuckled. “In that case, I know exactly what to give.”
A question mark popped over Meng Xizhao’s head.
Cui Ye had a particular fondness for seeing Meng Xizhao reveal his occasional naivety—especially in front of him. With a faint smile, he said, “A painting will suffice.”
Meng Xizhao blinked. “A painting?”
Cui Ye looked toward the window and began to describe the scene in his mind: “High mountains and flowing waters, a small pavilion within, a graceful figure inside, her back turned to the viewer. She cannot see the onlooker, and the onlooker cannot see her actions. The empty space is exactly what conveys longing and remembrance.”
Following Cui Ye’s words, Meng Xizhao pictured the scene in his mind.
…Interesting.
No face is revealed, no actions of the figure are explicitly shown; everything is left to the imagination. And one can only imagine what they have never seen—so they naturally conjure the scenes most familiar and cherished.
The beloved has long passed, and as time erodes even vivid memories, the once-lively image of her in their mind becomes distorted. Now, receiving a painting where her figure remains delicate and lovely, even if it’s a one-sided indulgence, can offer immense comfort—almost as if she lives on within the painting, a perfect world solely for her.
The more Meng Xizhao thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. He couldn’t help but smile. “How did Your Highness think of giving a painting? I thought, like me, you’ve never truly delighted in anyone, and wouldn’t know how to please a grieving person.”
At the word “delighted,” Cui Ye’s heart, usually as calm as a deep well, suddenly thumped.
He paused, then replied, “Delighting in a person or delighting in an object is the same. To desire and not attain, to gain and then lose—this kind of melancholy is not confined to romantic love. Everyone experiences unfulfilled longing, and so do we.”
Meng Xizhao responded with a faint hum.
For the latter part, he agreed with Cui Ye. But regarding the first statement, he shrugged. “Housing a person in your heart is not the same as housing an object. When it’s a person, your heart is full—you cannot fit another. That feeling is selfish, exclusive, irrational, and inescapable; it permeates every part of your life, like a deadly poison. And yet the antidote sits right before you, making you unable to leave for a single moment.”
Cui Ye stared at Meng Xizhao, each word reaching deep into his heart.
Meng Xizhao then laughed loudly. “But this is all what I’ve heard—I’ve never felt it myself. Your Highness, don’t take it seriously.” He studied Cui Ye’s expression, a hint of surprise in his tone. “Or… have you already taken it to heart? Your face looks somewhat… uneasy.”
Cui Ye snapped back to reality and instinctively avoided Meng Xizhao’s gaze, rubbing his temple as if covering up, “Not because of what you said… I just… feel a bit unwell.”
Meng Xizhao understood. “Then Your Highness, you should rest. I’ll be going now.”
Cui Ye nodded, rising faster than Meng Xizhao this time, and retreated into the inner room.
Meng Xizhao found it strange, though he hadn’t realized at first why. Later, he remembered—every time he met Cui Ye, it was Cui Ye who watched him leave, rarely the other way around.
Meng Xizhao muttered to himself, “…I’ve really been spoiled. And he’s the Crown Prince! The previous behavior was the abnormal one.”
Leaving Jiming Temple, Meng Xizhao wasted no time visiting Sang Fanyu. A custom painting like this couldn’t be found in antiques—it had to be freshly made.
But not just any painter would do; it had to be a renowned artist, or he wouldn’t dare present it.
Sang Fanyu, who knew the most literati and painters, recommended one who excelled in this kind of evocative scene. Meng Xizhao visited in person and, with money in hand, convinced the artist entirely.
Eight days later, the painting arrived. Meng Xizhao unfurled it and was instantly pleased.
Even someone like him, who knew nothing of art, found it exquisite. Mountains and rivers occupied two-thirds of the scroll, with a tiny pavilion nestled within, and a delicate figure no larger than a child’s palm.
This emphasized the vastness of the landscape while minimizing the figure’s explicit presence. A thousand viewers would each imagine a thousand different beauties.
Carrying the freshly finished gift, Meng Xizhao wasted no time and went to visit Qin Da. He had already learned that Qin Feimang only returned to his private residence three or four days a month, and only for a couple of hours before resuming service to the Emperor.
Meng Xizhao arrived just in time. After Qin Feimang let him in, he presented the painting and explained the favor he wished to request.
“I heard that the Princess of Chu’s situation in the palace isn’t very good these days.”
Qin Feimang raised an eyebrow. “Meng Xiuzhuan, aren’t you taking a bit too much interest in Her Highness the Princess?”
Meng Xizhao quickly waved his hands. “Minister Qin, don’t misunderstand. How could I even dare to entertain such thoughts about the Princess? Back when she was among the Xiongnu, she became very emotional. To calm her, I made a promise to her—that I would bring her safely back to Da Qi and ensure her well-being. I simply don’t want to be someone who breaks his word.”
Qin Feimang let out a soft chuckle, clearly not approving entirely of Meng Xizhao’s behavior.
Meng Xizhao sighed. “Regardless, I hope you can help me with this matter. If you can’t, that’s fine too—it would just show my own inability. As for this painting, you may keep it. I originally commissioned it for you. When I told the painter about the Princess of Chu and also mentioned how you once served the Princess of Shang, the experiences of the two princesses inspired the painter. That is how this work came to be.”
After speaking, Meng Xizhao lightly tapped the scroll beside him. Although the task hadn’t been accomplished, he looked worried, clasped his hands, and took his leave from Qin Feimang.
Qin Feimang did not allow him to take the painting with him. Only after Meng Xizhao had left did he carefully unroll it.
He stared at the small, vague figure on the scroll, motionless, for a long time.
At the same time, a rumor began circulating quietly in Ying Tianfu—not among ordinary citizens, but along the street near the courier inns.
Zhuchu Huijue, who loved to pry into others’ affairs, was shocked when he heard it. “What?! You’re saying the Xiongnu Chanyu was really killed by the Princess of Chu?!”