The autumn wind in the Imperial Garden bore a hint of slaughter, chilling Xiao Jingxing to the bone.
The old emperor’s veiled reprimands each struck like a nail driven into his heart.
That phrase, “I have read your mother’s letter,” hung over him like a guillotine blade, making every breath taste of blood.
He dared not linger. After kowtowing in gratitude, he hurried out through the Shenwu Gate.
A small sedan chair with a green canopy waited at the corner gate. Xiao Jingxing ducked inside, ordering the bearers to head straight for the Northern Garrison Command.
The sedan’s curtain dropped, shutting out the daylight.
Leaning against the wall of the sedan, Xiao Jingxing’s fingers unconsciously rubbed the jade pendant at his waist.
The sting of Noble Consort Wan’s slap still seemed to linger on his cheek, but what chilled him more was the look in the old emperor’s eyes back in the Imperial Garden.
That look—as though he were an old garment to be discarded at will.
In the imperial household, there were no fathers and sons, only sovereign and subjects.
The archway of the prison radiated a foul, lingering stench of gore under the gloomy sky.
In the duty room, Xiao Jingxing shed his conspicuous royal robes and donned a coarse, gray linen straight gown. A unfamiliar jailer, holding a lantern, led him down into the deepest level of the dungeon.
The stone steps were slick and moss-covered. The deeper they descended, the thicker the air grew with mustiness, rot, and the rusty smell of blood mingled with burnt flesh, clawing into his nostrils. Water droplets dripped from the walls into puddles, echoing hollowly. Now and then, low groans and the dragging clatter of chains drifted from the cells on either side, amplified endlessly in the confined darkness.
At the far end of the dungeon, a single cell glowed with a lamp no brighter than a bean.
On a pile of straw slumped a figure with disheveled hair. His prison uniform was long past recognizable, its hem clinging to black mud and dark bloodstains. The fabric over his right knee was thoroughly soaked; broken bone fragments had pierced the flesh, and seeping blood formed a large dark patch on the straw.
This was the man who, just yesterday, had sat in the Ministry of Revenue, commanding the empire’s grain and coin—the Minister himself, Shang Qitai.
Xiao Jingxing’s black boots stopped outside the iron bars. The sole treaded on standing water, making a faint sound.
The figure on the straw stirred. Shang Qitai lifted his head with difficulty, squinting through the dim light as he made out the silhouette beyond the bars. Recognition flared in his clouded eyes.
“Your Highness…”
Gripping the cracks in the brick floor, Shang Qitai ignored his torn, broken nails as he crawled forward, dragging his shattered right leg across the rough ground. His prison garb scraped against the gravel, producing a grating sound. With every inch he moved, the broken bits of his knee ground together. Sweat and muddy tears smeared his face, dripping from his chin onto the bricks and leaving a dark trail of blood.
When he reached the iron bars, Shang Qitai thrust his hands through the thick grilles and clung to Xiao Jingxing’s boot.
“Your Highness! I have waited so long for you!” Shang Qitai lifted his tear-streaked face, snot mingling with his tears. “South of the Yangtze! I have three secret salt fields there—not entered in any register, never taxed—netting a hundred thousand taels a year! If Your Highness will spare my life, I will give you all those salt fields, along with the gold bars buried beneath my ancestral home!”
Xiao Jingxing lowered his eyes, gazing down at the mud-and-blood-streaked face before him. Yesterday, in the imperial court, that same face had worn the dignity of a high-ranking minister. Now, it was like a begging old dog.
He lifted his right foot, the sole precisely pressing against Shang Qitai’s chin, then kicked fiercely.
Shang Qitai let out a muffled cry, flipping backward, his skull cracking against the stone wall before he slid to the ground.
Xiao Jingxing drew a square white silk handkerchief from his sleeve. Bending down, he meticulously wiped the blood and mud from the tip of his boot. His movements were slow, deliberate—as if cleaning a precious piece of porcelain. When the boot was clean, he casually tossed the handkerchief into the cell.
The silk landed lightly on the straw beside Shang Qitai’s cheek, instantly stained red.
“Minister Shang, you are confused,” Xiao Jingxing said, straightening up. His voice echoed through the empty dungeon. “The Grand Secretariat and His Majesty have already passed judgment. Your crime ends with corruption and dereliction of duty—no smuggling, certainly no treason.”
Shang Qitai clutched his jaw and struggled to sit up, glaring at Xiao Jingxing with contempt.
“Tomorrow, the Three Judicial Bureaus will hold a trial. The confession has already been drafted,” Xiao Jingxing said in measured tones. “All you need to do is affix your seal. Only you will not be spared—spare your entire family. If you try to drag others down, how many of the instruments in this prison do you think you can endure?”
“Spare them?” Shang Qitai gave a bitter laugh.
He propped himself up, spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm to the side, and two broken teeth clattered to the floor.
“Xiao Jingxing!” Shang Qitai roared, ignoring all formalities. His eyes bloodshot, he cried, “Don’t give me that hypocritical guff! The twenty years’ worth of plunder from the Shang family—every bit of it was poured into filling the hole left by your three hundred thousand bushels of army provisions! This old life of mine is meant to cover up your scheme of smuggling fine iron and selling out the state!”
Trembling, he pointed a finger at Xiao Jingxing’s nose.
“Last April, at the White Horse Ferry crossing, that five thousand catties of fine steel—it was your household steward who personally escorted the shipment! The ledgers said ‘farm tools,’ but at the border checkpoint, they turned into broadswords!”
“I wiped your accounts clean. I deflected the Ministry of War’s scrutiny. And now that it’s all come to light, you use my nine generations of kin to take the fall for you! You put on this air of genteel grace, but your heart is colder by a hundredfold than your father’s!”
Xiao Jingxing’s expression did not change. He did not even blink.
Turning, he walked toward the tunnel exit.
The wind in the tunnel turned even colder.
“You might hide it for a while, but you can’t keep it secret forever!” Shang Qitai smashed his hands against the iron bars. “Xiao Jingxing! I will wait for you in the underworld! I will wait for us both to walk the Yellow Springs!”
Xiao Jingxing’s steps did not falter. The hem of his gray linen gown fluttered in the dank wind.
Seeing that the First Prince paid him no mind, the venom in Shang Qitai’s eyes turned to sheer madness. He craned his neck and screamed toward the dungeon’s dark ceiling:
“And that old fogy on the dragon throne—he’s the real man-eating fiend!”
“That old cur! The subjects who helped him seize his throne—how many did he destroy, or flay and hang! Ruthless! Disloyal! He even schemed against his own son! Do you think you’ll fare well, Xiao Jingxing? The lot of you from the Xiao family…”
“He thinks by killing one Shang Qitai, his Great Qian dynasty will last forever? Dream on! The vermillion tower has rotted, the great hall will fall! I’ll take one step into the grave and watch your Xiao dynasty turn to dust and vanish!”
Xiao Jingxing paused on the stone steps.
He did not turn back but, facing away from the cell, he tossed a cold command to the jailer standing in the shadows:
“Too noisy.”
Then Xiao Jingxing resumed climbing the stairs. The sound of his boots faded step by step until it vanished entirely into the tunnel.
The jailer emerged from the shadows, expressionless, and raised his right hand to make a sign.
Two burly wardens carrying a set of irons unlocked the cell and entered.
One of them pressed his knee onto Shang Qitai’s chest.
Shang Qitai felt the weight of two mountains pressing down on him, making any struggle futile.
Next, the punishment began.
One warden grabbed his jaw and forced it open.
Another jailer took a pair of iron pliers from his waist, unhesitatingly reached them into Shang Qitai’s mouth, clamped down on the still-struggling tongue, and yanked outward with force.
Shang Qitai’s eyes instantly turned bloodshot, and a muffled cry of pain escaped from his throat.
The jailer pulled a short knife from his belt—a flash of blade.
A severed tongue fell onto the dry straw.
Blood gushed from Shang Qitai’s mouth, streaming down his chin and splattering across his mottled prison garb and the stone wall.
