The next morning, as the first light of dawn broke, a thin layer of autumn frost had settled on the golden glazed tiles of the Forbidden City.
Inside the Cabinet Office, the fragrance of sandalwood curled upwards, the lingering traces of aloeswood drifting among the rosewood desks.
The chilling, life-or-death atmosphere that had hung over the Cangshu Pavilion the previous night—the night that had sealed the fate of the Minister of Revenue—seemed to have scattered with the wind.
A few clerks moved softly, organizing provincial memorials. The only sound was the faint rustle of writing brushes against Xuan paper.
Sunlight streamed obliquely through the carved lattice windows, casting its glow upon towering piles of documents. Everything had returned to the calm, everyday rhythm of administering the affairs of the realm. The power center of the Great Qian Dynasty had always possessed the ability to conceal raging tempests beneath a tranquil surface.
Xu Jie, the Grand Secretary and head of the Cabinet, sat upright in the central armchair, holding a yellowed classic of history and philosophy, his expression serene. The Second Grand Secretary, Xie Miheng, along with two Grand Scholars, Cui Heng and Zheng Boyong, sat on either side. On each of their desks lay a memorial submitted by the Ministry of Rites.
The following month would mark the triennial provincial examinations—the Empire’s great selection of talent, upon which hinged the official careers of scholars across the realm.
“The Minister of Rites submitted a memorial yesterday,” Xie Miheng said, pressing down lightly on the roster in his hands, his tone deliberately relaxed. “He inquired about this year’s regulations for the Shuntian Prefecture prefectural examinations.”
“The provincial education commissioners are all awaiting the Cabinet’s draft rescripts. In previous years, by this time, the rotation of examiners and the rules for search procedures at the examination halls would have been settled long ago. Grand Secretary, is there to be a change this year?”
Xu Jie closed the volume in his hands and set it gently on the desk. Without looking up, he calmly picked up a paperweight to secure the dossier beneath it.
“The memorials from the provincial education commissioners shall be approved according to precedent,” Xu Jie said, his voice steady and aged, cutting clearly through the silence of the room. “The system for rotating examiners and the strict search procedures into the examination halls—not a single rule is to be altered. Tell the Ministry of Rites that everything must be carried out exactly as in previous years. If anyone dares to disrupt the established order at this critical juncture, I will personally remove his official hat.”
Hearing this, Xie Miheng’s brow arched in an almost imperceptible frown.
With the instincts honed from years of navigating the treacherous currents of the imperial court, he sensed something unusual lurking beneath the surface of those calm words.
If truly nothing was to change, why would the Grand Secretary summon them specifically for discussion at this hour?
Only yesterday, the Emperor had approved Xu Youde’s extraordinary request for joint verification of four imperial seals—a monumental shift causing undercurrents of unrest throughout the court. Could the most critical national affair, the imperial examinations, truly yield nothing new?
“I shall relay your instructions to the Ministry of Rites,” Xie Miheng said, leaning slightly forward as he probed cautiously. “However, Your Excellency, given the stalemate on the northern front and the unsettled mood at court, do these autumn examinations truly adhere only to old precedents, with no infusion of fresh ideas? If so, why did you summon us here today merely to drink tea and chat?”
Hearing this, Xu Jie slowly lifted the celadon tea cup of Ru ware beside his hand. He gently skimmed the floating leaves with the lid, making not a single sound.
“The rules are fixed, and naturally they cannot change.” Xu Jie took a small sip, then raised his cloudy yet penetrating eyes, his voice casual and light. “But the standards for reviewing examination papers… this time, they must be more flexible.”
The moment these words fell, the air in the office instantly thickened.
Xie Miheng and Cui Heng exchanged glances, both seeing the shock in each other’s eyes. More flexible in reviewing papers? Imperial examinations had always upheld Neo-Confucian orthodoxy as the supreme standard—every single character and phrase had to be substantiated with classical citations. Since when was flexibility permitted?
Had these words come from anyone else’s lips, they would surely have been impeached for treason. But coming from Xu Jie, a veteran of three reigns and the foremost authority among the realm’s civil officials, they formed a thunderbolt that threatened to shake the very foundations of the examination system.
“Grand Secretary!” Cui Heng could not suppress his alarm, lowering his voice urgently. “What exactly does this ‘flexibility’ imply? Please enlighten us, Your Excellency, so that the subordinate examiners may have a clear understanding and avoid committing any taboos!”
Facing their pressing questions, Xu Jie set down his tea cup.
His face, half in shadow and half in light, appeared unfathomably profound.
“The subordinate examiners need not know the details,” Xu Jie said, rising to his feet and straightening the wide sleeves of his court robe. He sealed the startling pronouncement tightly within his chest. “Await the Emperor’s decree. Gentlemen, each of you shall manage your own duties.”
With these words that closed all speculation, Xu Jie clasped his hands behind his back and walked toward the inner chambers, leaving the three Grand Scholars standing frozen in place, cold sweat trickling down their spines.
…
Meanwhile, at the First Prince’s mansion outside the Donghua Gate of the capital.
Unlike the profound stillness of the Cabinet Office, a suffocating atmosphere of splendor and haughtiness filled this place. Deep within the mansion of carved beams and painted rafters, a spacious waterside pavilion had been built in the center of a lake fed by running water. The lake did not grow lotus flowers, but instead reared hundreds upon thousands of blood-red, massive koi fish.
Surrounding the pavilion were wind-proof gauze curtains woven from shark silk. Several concubines knelt on both sides, trembling as they held golden basins and embroidered handkerchiefs.
The First Prince, Xiao Jingxing, reclined sideways on a rosewood couch draped with an entire white tiger skin. He possessed chiseled brows and starry eyes, yet his features carried a festering malevolence. As a theatrical troupe performed on the water’s surface, plucking pipa strings and crooning languid southern tunes, he listened with feigned indifference, his slender fingers reaching into a white jade dish beside him.
The dish did not contain the finely ground fish feed that nobles typically used, but rather thin slices of raw beef, still streaked with threads of crimson blood.
Xiao Jingxing casually pinched a clump of bleeding minced meat and flicked it into the lake with his finger.
A loud splash erupted instantly, as the previously calm water boiled over. Countless red koi crazily surged and leaped from the water, their massive mouths tearing savagely at the flesh. Some even ripped the scales off their own companions. In an instant, a nauseating, murky reddish stain spread across the lake’s surface.
“Good fight,” Xiao Jingxing muttered, a grin curling at the corner of his lips as he savored this supreme, detached dominion over life and death.
Right at that moment of exquisite decadence, hasty, stumbling footsteps sounded from the corridor outside the pavilion.
Steward Wang, the First Prince’s intelligence chief, rushed in, drenched in sweat. Ignoring all protocols, he barely reached the bluestone slabs ten paces from the couch before his knees gave way, and he crashed to the ground with a muffled thud.
Steward Wang trembled violently, his legs unable to stop shaking. He did not dare to lift his head.
Beans of cold sweat rolled down his forehead, drop after drop falling onto the polished stone, forming a small puddle.
Annoyed at the interruption to his leisure, the First Prince frowned, his fingers poised mid-air, still pinching the raw meat.
“You dog of a man,” Xiao Jingxing’s voice turned harsh, carrying undisguised disgust. “Have all your manners been lost on feeding dogs? What business could cause such panic? Has the sky fallen or something?”
Steward Wang pressed his head flat against the icy floor, his teeth chattering audibly. “Your Highness… the sky is about to fall… All the major tea houses and taverns in the capital are suddenly spreading the same strange tale. That storyteller Old Li from Moonlight Tower, he began reciting a ballad on stage… entitled…”
He faltered, his throat tightening. He simply could not force the words out.
"What is your name?" the First Prince's voice dropped low, his cold gaze locking onto the household servant cowering on the ground. "Speak. Miss a single word, and this prince will have you chopped up and fed to the fish."
Under the threat of a brutal death, Steward Wang closed his eyes in despair. He steeled himself, his voice trembling to the extreme as he recited those words from the Moonlight Pavilion verbatim.
"That Old Li said onstage... 'A mad dog devours its master; a thief among servants carries bricks behind their backs'..."
Steward Wang's voice rang out in the empty, opulent waterside pavilion, each word like a barbed whip lashing fiercely against the sumptuous mermaid-silk curtains that surrounded them.
"He said... on the fifth night of the third month last year, at midnight, we passed through the Qingyang Gate, delivering two thousand catties of raw iron. On the eighteenth of the fourth month, in the hour of the ox, we passed through the Baima crossroads, delivering five thousand catties of refined steel... On the seventh of the fifth month, in the hour of the dog, we left through the Desheng Gate, delivering five hundred bushels of crude salt..."
These precisely detailed hours and exact figures— down to the pound— were originally the deepest, most unspeakable secrets within the First Prince's estate. They were irrefutable evidence of treason, enough to execute nine generations of a family or have them drawn and quartered. And now, these blood-soaked and criminal numbers were being spoken without restraint from the mouth of a lowly servant, turned into street gossip for commoners to chew over!
Xiao Jingxing's initial faint sneer froze on his face the moment he heard the words "the fifth of the third month."
When "five thousand catties of refined steel" reached his ears, his pupils violently contracted, and his mind exploded with a thunderous bang. Overwhelming fury and bone-chilling dread instantly shattered all his composure and arrogance.
Slap!
Xiao Jingxing suddenly tightened his hand, crushing the priceless white jade meat plate into powder! The shattered jade, mixed with bloodied raw meat, fell pitifully onto the precious Persian carpet. The concubines on either side screamed in terror, scrambling back into the corners, trembling in fear.
"Who!" Xiao Jingxing shot to his feet, his face twisted beyond recognition. Impossible—only the one who knew the account books... His eyes turned bloodshot in an instant. He stared fixedly at the kneeling Steward Wang, his chest heaving violently. "Who in the hell did this?! Who's got the gut to leak my top-secret information?"
What he believed were his flawless records of smuggling, his undetected schemes of gathering wealth, had been stripped bare, guts and bones exposed, flayed and hung raw for the eyes of hundreds of thousands in the capital!
A sharp sound of metal rang out.
Xiao Jingxing lunged forward and snatched a sword from the waist of the guard outside the pavilion.
The gleam of the sharp blade reflected murder under the sun. He had lost all reason, his roar spiraling completely out of control: "Summon the house guards! Immediately muster five hundred guards to the Moonlight Pavilion! Rip out the tongue of that damned storyteller! Kill everyone in that teahouse! Leave no one alive!"
Facing the raging prince, Steward Wang was so frightened his soul nearly left his body. He knew full well that any misstep at this moment would lead to a severed head, but he also understood the situation outside was an unresolvable death trap.
"Your Highness! You must not!" Steward Wang crawled forward, throwing himself at the Prince's boots and knocking his forehead hard against the stone floor until blood gushed everywhere. He screamed wretchedly, "That storyteller can't be touched, Your Highness! You cannot!"
"Who are you, you cur of a slave, to block this prince?!" Xiao Jingxing raised the sword, as if to strike down.
"Order-preserving enforcers are stationed right across the teahouse! They heard the tale and didn't dare move!" Steward Wang raised his blood-and-tear-streaked face, screaming out in desperation, "Those who spied say the storyteller is backed by secret men from the palace's inner camp... Your Highness, that's the Emperor's man!"
Clatter.
The sword slipped from Xiao Jingxing's hand and crashed heavily onto the stone.
Those cold, hard words instantly doused his fury like ice water. Father? Had the Emperor uncovered the accounts? Was the Emperor deliberately using the storyteller's mouth to chasten this son, who had tried to meddle in military power and collude with the enemy?
If it was the old Emperor's doing, it meant the deadly blade had already truly dangled over Xiao Jingxing's neck.
Xiao Jingxing stumbled half a step back, his body shaking uncontrollably. He who had moments ago been a master casually throwing away raw meat, was now himself the helpless prey on the chopping block.
Just as the predicament became impossible and the First Prince had sunk into extreme terror and despair—
Suddenly, the clamor of hurried footsteps echoed on the bluestone path outside the waterside pavilion.
The steps were chaotic, punctuated even by the sound of someone stumbling over the threshold.
Imperial Censor Liu Zhao tumbled through the gauzy curtains, scrambling and rolling.
His official headgear had slid askew, and his judge's robe was stained with mud. His face, in court known for its haughty debates, was now deathly pale, drained of every ounce of human color.
Liu Zhao collapsed at the First Prince's feet, wailing miserably:
"Your Highness! A disaster has struck!"
