Deep in the night, within the Grand Secretariat's duty room.
The bronze brazier, adorned with beast-face motifs, blazed fiercely. The freshly added silver-thread charcoal gave off no smoke, yet it baked the room like a steam box.
Outside the window, the autumn rain pattered against the translucent tiles. The unbroken sound of the downpour only deepened the deathly stillness that hung over the room.
Lord Grand Secretary Xu Jie was absent that night.
Vice Grand Secretary Xie Miheng sat in a purple-sandalwood armchair to the left of the long desk, idly peeling a newly presented autumn crabapple in his hand.
Standing below him were Minister of Justice Zhao Xian and Chief Magistrate of the Court of Judicial Review Wang Shoujing.
These two officials, who jointly oversaw the Great Qian's penal affairs, both stood with bowed heads and lowered eyes, not daring to move a muscle.
Xie Miheng tossed the peeled crabapple flesh into a nearby waste basin, brushed the residue from his fingers, and spoke: "Calling you two lords into the Grand Secretariat this late is for one case only."
Zhao Xian bent his waist even lower: "The Vice Grand Secretary gives his orders; we subordinates listen with all due attention."
"The case of Shang Qitai, Minister of Revenue, has already been decided by the Grand Secretariat." Xie Miheng's voice carried a sticky, chilling coldness through the rainy night.
Zhao Xian and Wang Shoujing exchanged a glance, both seeing the shock in each other's eyes.
The Minister of Revenue, a full second-rank official—the Grand Secretariat had actually "decided" the case without going through a joint trial by the Three Judicial Organs.
This was to bypass the rules and force a verdict of life or death!
"Shang Qitai oversees the Great Qian's grain and finances. His hands are dirty—that's known throughout the court and the realm," Xie Miheng said, lifting a Jian ware black-glazed cup from the desk and skimming the floating foam.
"But His Majesty is one who cherishes old ties."
"If the Revenue Ministry's shadow ledger were truly dragged into the light, pulling up a radish would bring up a whole patch of mud—hundreds or thousands of great families would be implicated."
"Then the treasury might grow fat, but the foundations of this Great Qian would start to tremble."
Zhao Xian swallowed his saliva and dared to ask: "Then... the Vice Grand Secretary's meaning is that this case should be raised high and set down lightly?"
"Set down lightly?" Xie Miheng let out a cold laugh. "The Lord Grand Secretary's meaning is that Shang Qitai's head must be taken by His Majesty's hand. And it cannot be under the charge of embezzlement."
Wang Shoujing's palms began to sweat.
If not embezzlement, what charge could there be?
Xie Miheng leaned forward slightly, fixing his gaze on the two men below him, and uttered eight words: "Conspiring secretly with the Northern Di, trafficking military weapons."
The moment those eight words landed, the air in the duty room grew so heavy it could crush a man.
Zhao Xian's breathing immediately turned harsh, and his back was instantly soaked through with cold sweat.
Conspiring with the Northern Di, trafficking military weapons.
To pin such a capital crime on the Minister of Revenue—this was to use Shang Qitai's nine generations of kin to fill a bottomless pit!
Xie Miheng drew a folded sheet of Xuan paper from his wide sleeve.
Quick-witted Zhao Xian stepped forward and received the thin paper with both hands.
Wang Shoujing also leaned in to look.
The ink on the paper was fresh, still carrying the faint scent of pine soot.
It bore no official seal from any ministry, nor any fingerprint for verification.
But the content on it was so detailed it made the scalp crawl.
Third day of the third month last year, two thousand catties of pig iron passed through the Green Ram Gate; the eighteenth day of the fourth month, at the hour of the Ox (1–3 AM), five thousand catties of fine steel sent through the White Horse Ferry Crossing...
Every single ledger entry, every transfer point, even the names of the caravan drivers in charge of transport—all were listed clearly.
And all these threads converged eventually on the private residence of Minister of Revenue Shang Qitai.
Zhao Xian recognized the calligraphy on the paper—it was the standardized court style used by secretaries of the Grand Secretariat.
"Vice Grand Secretary..." Wang Shoujing's voice had turned hoarse, his eyes fixed on the paper. "Is this case... sealed for all eternity?"
"The ironclad evidence is like a mountain. Would the Court of Judicial Review dare to overturn the verdict for a traitor selling out his country?" Xie Miheng leaned back into his chair and countered.
Zhao Xian and Wang Shoujing both shivered.
Having muddled through officialdom for half a lifetime, they understood the hidden mechanisms perfectly.
Some powerful figure must have gotten into trouble, but they could not imagine who it could be, no matter how hard they racked their brains.
Someone must be getting him out of the mess, and in the process, plugging a hole in the Revenue Ministry with a blood-soaked sheet of window paper.
"Then... this official understands." Zhao Xian bent over to present the paper in both hands. "This confession, I shall take back to the Ministry of Justice tonight and have it copied into the files without delay."
"Hold," Xie Miheng raised a hand.
Zhao Xian halted mid-step, looking up in confusion.
Xie Miheng did not explain. He directly withdrew the paper from Zhao Xian's hand.
He stood up, walked to the red-hot beastface bronze brazier, and tossed the thin sheet listing Shang Qitai's entire family's death sentence lightly into the charcoal fire.
With a whoosh, flames shot half a foot high, instantly devouring the paper.
In the blink of an eye, it had turned into a clump of black ash, floating upward on the heat of the fire.
Before the joint trial of the Three Judicial Organs, when privately sharing core evidence, there must never be a trace of paper evidence left behind.
Xie Miheng stared at the pile of ashes, his voice devoid of any emotion: "The names, the hour, the weight. Both of you, gentlemen, are men of sharp memory and wit, so you must have it all etched in your minds. Go back and have your men make a new copy. Put the butler and the accountant of the Shang Qitai Mansion to torture if necessary. I want their signed confessions before dawn."
Zhao Xian looked at the dying embers in the brazier, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Your subordinate... will comply."
The two stepped out of the Cabinet office.
The autumn wind deep in the night swept in through the corridors of the palace, carrying a chill drizzle that made both high-ranking officials shiver in unison.
Zhao Xian walked ahead until he passed the Inner Right Gate. He gazed into the pitch-black sky in the distance and finally let out a long sigh of relief.
He turned to look at Wang Shoujing beside him, a barely restrained tremor in his voice.
"Lord Wang, the imperial court of Great Qian... is about to face a tempest."
...
At the same moment, at the Shang Mansion in the eastern part of the capital.
A light also burned in Shang Qitai's scholar-tree study of redwood.
Four Chengxintang candles as thick as an arm bathed the room in brightness as if it were day.
The Minister of Revenue, who had long held the reins of the Great Qian's treasury, now draped himself in a dark-red woven gold brocade robe, standing before a hanging map of Jiangnan. A cup of warm ginseng tea in his hand, his eyes roamed back and forth across several checkpoints along the Grand Canal at Jinling and Suzhou.
"Xu Youde, oh, Xu Youde," Shang Qitai snorted coldly, taking a sip of the tea. "Do you really think that by conjuring up some 'four-seal joint authentication' and swearing a military oath to deliver fifteen days' grain, you can turn the tide?"
The day before, Noble Consort Wan had already sent a secret letter to Jinling.
Those great clans in Jiangnan—their roots were deep, with branches entangled. A little trick in Jinling, a flimsy excuse like "silt in the river" or "leaks in the grain barge," and those three hundred thousand stone of military rations would rot in the river altogether.
In fifteen days, the grain would not arrive. The troops at Zhenbei Pass would go starving.
Then it would be time for Xu Youde and his son to lose their heads.
He, Shang Qitai, had suffered a silent defeat in court and lost face. But he still held the trump cards of the aristocratic families.
If he could just endure this half-month, once the Xu family fell, the duties of the Ministry of Revenue would return to his hands.
Just as he was indulging in this beautiful dream of using a dagger from another’s hand, a series of sharp, wretched barks erupted from the back courtyard.
The dogs weren't barking fiercely like guard dogs should; it sounded more like someone was strangling them with a rope, and the beasts were letting out desperate howls as they fought for breath.
In the silence of that rainy autumn night, the sound sent chills down one's spine.
Shang Qitai frowned and called out loudly, "Hey! Someone! What’s happening in the back courtyard? Can no one control even those beasts in the dead of night?"
No answer came from outside the door.
After a full half-incense-stick of time, a disorderly, hurried set of footsteps finally echoed up the corridor.
Bang. The study door was thrown open.
The Shang Mansion’s head steward hadn’t even bothered with an umbrella. Soaked to the bone, covered in mud and filth, he stumbled into the study on all fours. His bun of hair was disheveled, and one side of his face was smeared with dirt. He dropped to his knees the moment he entered, prostrating himself at Shang Qitai’s feet, his voice tinged with tears.
"Master! This is bad! This is a disaster!"
Shang Qitai’s face darkened. He lashed out and kicked the steward square on the shoulder. "You insolent cur! If the sky were falling, your master would hold it up. What’s all this wailing and carrying on about?"
The steward rolled to the floor but paid the pain no heed. He grabbed Shang Qitai’s leg, trembling all over like a leaf in a storm. "Master... Mr. Wu the accountant... Mr. Wu has run off!"
"Run off? What do you mean, run off?" Shang Qitai froze.
"He busted open the secret compartment in the inner accounting room that held the confidential ledgers! He took along Mistress Hongxiu from the chamber you often visit, and the land deeds from the southern part of the city... He scaled the back-garden wall and fled in the middle of the night, throwing everything together."
The steward sobbed.
"The guard dogs in the back courtyard went after him, but he silenced them by feeding poisoned treats!"
Shang Qitai felt a booming in his skull like thunder. His body swayed, and he stumbled back half a step, crashing against the desk.
Mr. Wu had served him for fifteen years. He knew all his off-book accounts, all his secret investments.
And this man—ordinarily a shabby clerk who dared not even speak loudly—how could he choose to abscond with the goods at such a crucial moment?
When the great mansion begins to collapse, the bottom-tier servants often have far sharper noses first. The backlash always comes from within.
"Treason... naked treason!" Shang Qitai’s face contorted with rage. He seized the steward by the collar. "Take my name card! Go straight to the Shuntian Prefecture! Tell Liu Zhao to dispatch men to seal the city gates! Get that bastard for me! I’ll skin him alive!"
Just as the steward scrambled to his feet to dash frantically out the door—
Boom!
A thunderous crash erupted from the front courtyard. Even the window frames of the study shook violently. The sound was so immense it drowned out the relentless drizzle that had been falling.
Shang Qitai went numb.
He knew that sound all too well.
It was the sound of his mansion's two thousand-pound, brass-studded crimson doors—now smashed down by brute force.
And then came the dense, pounding rhythm of horse hooves.
The light from countless torches pierced through the heavy curtain of rain, casting the front courtyard of the Shang residence in a blood-red glow.
"Who dares to break down the gate of a Minister of Revenue?!" Shang Qitai shoved his steward aside, his eyes bloodshot like a cornered beast driven to desperation.
There was no answer.
Only the sound of footsteps, perfectly in sync, splashing through the accumulated water.
Dozens of Brocade Guard horsemen, clad in flying-fish uniforms and with embroidered spring knives hanging at their waists, surged into the Shang residence like a black tide.
They paid no heed to the terrified servants and retainers scattering in panic across the courtyard. Upon entering, they split into two teams and headed straight for the mansion’s various side gates and walls.
"The Imperial Secret Service is conducting an investigation! Seal off all side gates!"
A cold, harsh shout exploded through the storm.
"Anyone attempting to climb over the walls, regardless of age, will be executed on the spot! Not even a fly is to be let out!"
Shang Qitai stood under the eaves of his study, staring at the tall figure striding through the rain toward him.
It was Shen Lian, commander of the Imperial Secret Service.
Shen Lian wore no straw rain cloak. The rainwater streamed down his dark red flying-fish uniform.
In his hand, he held a bright yellow silk scroll—the most fearsome thing in the laws of the Great Qian Empire: an imperial arrest warrant.
To arrest a top-ranking official of the first rank, bypassing the Three Judicial Offices and the Court of Judicial Review.
A single arrest warrant represented the absolute violence and power of life and death wielded by the imperial secret police.
"Shen Lian!" Shang Qitai was utterly unhinged.
Without even bothering to put on an outer robe, he rushed into the heavy rain wearing only a thin undergarment.
Reaching into his bosom, he pulled out a warm, flawless white jade ruyi scepter and raised it high above his head.
"I am a second-rank Minister of Revenue of the current dynasty! In my hand is a jade ruyi bestowed by the late emperor! You eunuch lackey, how dare you lead troops to invade the residence of an imperial official! Aren’t you afraid the censors in the Censorate will drown you in spit tomorrow?!"
Shang Qitai’s voice was hoarse and shrill in the rainy night. He tried to use the lingering authority of the late emperor and the ironclad rule of the civil officialdom—"officials of rank shall not be subjected to corporal punishment"—to resist this blunt exercise of imperial power.
Shen Lian halted, just three steps away from Shang Qitai.
He quietly looked at the old man before him, who was holding the ruyi high, hair disheveled and wild. There was no pity in his eyes, nor mockery—only the cold indifference of looking at something already dead.
No recitation of charges. No superfluous words.
Shen Lian’s right hand grasped the handle of the embroidered spring knife at his waist.
Zheng—
The long blade slid half an inch from its sheath, its gleaming surface reflecting the torches’ red light.
The next instant, Shen Lian suddenly stepped forward. The embroidered spring knife, still in its scabbard, struck with a vicious angle and a whistling force that tore through the air, slamming hard into Shang Qitai’s right knee.
Crack!
The sharp sound of bone breaking was clear even through the storm.
Shang Qitai’s curses stopped abruptly.
His eyes bulged, nearly popping from their sockets as a bloodcurdling scream tore from his throat.
His right kneecap had been completely shattered by the heavy blow.
His body collapsed with a crash, falling straight onto the ground and splashing into the mud.
The jade ruyi, which he had treated as a talisman bestowed by the late emperor, flew from his hand and shattered into pieces on the ground.
Shen Lian stood over him, looking down at Shang Qitai writhing in pain in the mud and water. He rehung the embroidered spring knife at his waist and coldly spat out two words: "Seize him."
Two fierce horsemen rushed forward, pressing down on Shang Qitai’s shoulders from left and right, dragging him away like a dead dog.
The Imperial Secret Service men had control of the situation, but the officials from the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of Justice responsible for recording the confiscation of property had not yet arrived.
In the vacuum of power, the ugliness of human nature is often most exposed.
The servants in the inner courtyard of the Shang residence witnessed their lord—who usually stood high above them and could decide their fates with a single word—having his leg broken by the Imperial Secret Service and being trampled in the mud.
The reverence and fear that had long been buried deep in their hearts collapsed in an instant.
And what followed was uncontrollable madness and greed.
No one knew who started it. Some of the rough laborers, who usually chopped firewood in the kitchen and endured beatings and scoldings from the stewards, exchanged glances.
Suddenly letting out a strange yell, they turned and smashed open the side door of the inner courtyard’s storeroom.
That was the private treasury where the Shang family kept daily expenses and items granted as rewards.
The moment the door opened, several laborers rushed in like madmen.
Some kicked open the camphorwood chests of silver ingots and grabbed handfuls of silver nuggets, stuffing them into their pants; others stripped brocade and silk from the shelves and wound them around their waists.
The courtyard grew more chaotic by the minute.
Two night-soil carriers set their eyes on a white fox-fur coat that had rolled out of a chest—a garment for the winter worn by Shang Qitai’s most favored concubine, pure white and flawless in its fur.
"I saw it first! Let go, you old crone!"
"Bullshit! Who do you think you are, worthy of wearing a fox coat?!"
The two of them wrestled in the mud.
The precious white fox coat was yanked between them, dragged through the filth, its pristine fur stained with mud and the blood from scratches on their faces.
Beside him, silver nuggets that had fallen from the laborers’ bodies lay scattered.
Mud mixed with blood flowed everywhere through the once-proud mansion of the Minister of Revenue.
