The next morning at daybreak, the clouds cleared and the rain stopped.
This was Wen Zhuo's first court session after being reborn. Emperor Shunyuan walked unsteadily, always supported by the eunuch Liu Quan.
The Spring Terrace Go Tournament was approaching, and there was little of importance on the morning's agenda. He only needed to watch the sons of the eight noble houses quarrel, bicker, and puff out their chests in boasts. But his two sons refused to let him have peace.
Minister of Works Shang Zhiqin suddenly stepped forward and dropped to his knees with a thud, as if determined to pound two craters into the palace floor. This was the classic posture for remonstration—Wen Zhuo sometimes felt sorry for their knees on their behalf.
As a core figure of Prince Xian's faction, the moment he moved, the Crown Prince's people tensed up.
Shang Zhiqin produced a sealed letter from his robes, presented it with both hands, and said with a grave expression: "Your Majesty, I believe the case of Cao Fangzheng is not yet closed."
The Crown Prince whirled around, glaring angrily: "Shang Zhiqin, what do you mean by this! Taking his life isn't enough—do you intend to exterminate the entire Cao clan?!"
The Cao clan's nine familial branches included the Crown Prince himself, and even the reigning emperor. Shen Zhen was trying to slap a huge hat onto Shang Zhiqin's head.
Prince Xian would never allow his own man to wear that hat. He stepped forward, using his tall and broad frame, casting a contemptuous glance at Shen Zhen, then turned to Emperor Shunyuan with his usual expression of one who worried for the realm: "Minister Shang hasn't said a single word yet—I wonder what the Crown Prince is in such a hurry about. Father, I believe this matter is of grave importance and we should hear him out. These years Cao Fangzheng has been tyrannical and overbearing; I suspect even the Crown Prince has been deceived on many counts."
Emperor Shunyuan cleared his throat, turned his head to spit into a spittoon, and only then ordered Shang Zhiqin: "What is that you've got there? Tell us."
"Yes." Shang Zhiqin handed the sealed letter to Liu Quan, who came to collect it, then lifted his robes and knelt. "The Spring Terrace Go Tournament is approaching, and officials from various prefectures are converging on the capital for the grand occasion. Among them is a water conservancy official from Qianzhou. When he heard that Cao Fangzheng had been imprisoned for crimes, he secretly came to lodge a complaint with me."
"Six years ago, flooding struck at the Liang River ferry in Qianzhou, submerging countless farmlands and homesteads. In an instant, refugees scattered everywhere, and resentment filled the air. Minister Bu of the Revenue Bureau should know this—at the time, the court allocated two million taels for disaster relief. Later, Cao Fangzheng petitioned to build levees along the Liang River. My ministry approved it, and the court allocated another three million taels. All of this is on the official records."
Emperor Shunyuan nodded. He had a vague memory of this.
Shang Zhiqin said with hatred: "The construction of levees should have been carried out jointly by corvée laborers and conscripted civilians. Our Great Qian has long had an equitable labor law for conscripting citizens. But I only learned yesterday that, at Cao Fangzheng's implicit direction, the officials and clerks of Qianzhou colluded in profiteering, shifting the heavy burdens that should have fallen on landlords and gentry onto tenant farmers and refugees. The rations the court gave to the people were also pocketed by the officials."
"This led many tenant farmers to neglect their agricultural seasons and die of poverty and hunger, leaving behind only elderly women and frail girls. These women had no grain to fill their stomachs and no way out, so they banded together, seducing and robbing passing merchants and officials. Cao Fangzheng then sent troops to suppress them, dubbing them the 'Rouge Bandits.'"
"Damned scoundrel!" Emperor Shunyuan scanned the secret letter, his imperial countenance abruptly changing. He flung the paper onto the dark bricks. "That wretch deserves death!"
The ministers hurriedly knelt, shouting in ragged unison: "We are guilty, Your Majesty."
Shang Zhiqin raised his head triumphantly, glaring at the Crown Prince's faction with pointed meaning: "And who knows whose pockets all that money Cao Fangzheng embezzled ended up in!"
Prince Xian's faction's goal was by no means just a single Cao Fangzheng—they hoped to use Cao Fangzheng as a breach through which to uproot the entire Cao faction and cripple the Crown Prince's wings.
The Crown Prince's face instantly turned deathly pale, and his legs threatened to give way. He quickly glanced secretly at Gong Zhiyuan.
Gong Zhiyuan pondered for a moment, then spoke: "Your Majesty, that water conservancy official's words cannot be taken entirely at face value. This happened six years ago. If corruption had truly festered to such a degree, why didn't the water conservancy official report it to the court at the time? I believe he bears a personal grudge against Cao Fangzheng and is kicking a man when he's down. I submit that his motive is not in the court's interest—his heart is deserving of execution. And Your Majesty should remember: Cao Fangzheng was once publicly commended by the court for managing the floods."
Gong Zhiyuan's key point was in that final sentence.
Back then, Emperor Shunyuan had personally commended Cao Fangzheng, praising him for "loyal diligence without slack, and remarkable achievements." If Cao Fangzheng were now deemed guilty, it would mean the emperor himself had once been wrong.
If such a corruption scandal were investigated to its depths, it would certainly be recorded in the annals of history, and Emperor Shunyuan would bear the infamy of being unable to tell loyal from treacherous.
Sure enough, upon hearing these words, Emperor Shunyuan calmed down and remained silent for a long while.
Wen Zhuo had long anticipated the emperor's reaction. This was not the darkness of the emperor's nature, but the darkness inherent in all men.
Getting an ordinary mortal to admit fault was already difficult, let alone a Son of Heaven. Throughout the ages, how many had issued edicts of self-blame?
But even if Cao Fangzheng's matter could be suppressed, the thunderous revelation Wen Zhuo had prepared for him was already on its way.
Emperor Shunyuan finally spoke: "Cao Fangzheng—one who showed no regard for his sovereign, guilty of high treason—shall be taken to the Imperial Avenue and summarily beaten to death!"
"Your Majesty!" Shang Zhiqin cried out.
The tassels of the imperial crown swayed slightly. The aged monarch raised his drooping eyelids and once again revealed that bone-chilling indifference—the cold aloofness of one long accustomed to supreme power.
Among the assembled ministers, Xie Langyang's mind was fixed entirely on Wen Zhuo. He waited for the two of them to exchange a glance in some gap, as they used to—even a hateful one would do.
But Wen Zhuo never once looked his way, instead keeping his eyes on the scene of commotion.
A flicker of feeling tightened in Xie Langyang's palm. After about the time it takes half a cup of tea to cool, it seemed Wen Zhuo sensed something—his gaze suddenly snapped back, yet it did not linger on Xie Langyang for even a moment, as if brushing past an insignificant speck of dust.
Xie Langyang's chest felt stuffed with a waterlogged cotton wad. He replayed in his mind Wen Zhuo's ruthless resolution in the Qingliang Hall, and a bitterness spread across his tongue.
From beginning to end, had he ever possessed the slightest choice?
Imperial power loomed like a mountain. Who would have thought that after Wen Zhuo had walked away, he too had now become a pawn crushed beneath it.
He parted his lips, but found no way to console himself—because the grievances Wen Zhuo had suffered were a hundred times greater than his own. So it all melted into a single sigh.
The Directorate of Ceremonial Services loudly announced the end of court, and the officials took their leave one after another. Although the Crown Prince had lost his maternal uncle this time, at least the damage was limited.
The Crown Prince's faction surrounded Gong Zhiyuan, praising his composure in the face of danger, hailing him as a true Grand Secretary.
Gong Zhiyuan even found a moment to greet Xie Langyang, his son-in-law. Xie Langyang hurriedly bowed in deference: "My mentor."
By the time Gong Zhiyuan was escorted away, Xie Langyang rushed to find Wen Zhuo—but there was no trace of Wen Zhuo anywhere.
He hurriedly chased after him and finally spotted him on the Imperial Avenue.
Wen Zhuo stood at the side of the palace road, hands clasped and hidden within his official robes, watching the execution.
Beating someone to death in the palace was a common occurrence—ranging from high officials who offended imperial majesty to household servants who made mistakes. So there were not many spectators, but Wen Zhuo watched with great seriousness.
Cao Fangzheng's hands were pinned down firmly. The bloodstained club was raised high, then fell with dull, heavy thuds.
Any person's dignity and pride, in the face of such soul-crushing pain, become utterly trivial. Cao Fangzheng could no longer cry out in human voice—he spasmed violently like a fish out of water, blood streaming down his thin garments, dripping onto the cold blue bricks of early spring, spreading along the cracks between the stones. The scent of that bitter, brutal blood wafted into the noses and mouths of all who watched.
All the words Xie Langyang had been about to say shattered into fragments at the sight of the gruesome scene before him. He couldn't utter a single syllable.
Because of him, Wen Zhuo had suffered such torture as well—this could not even be called humiliation, but utter destruction.
Cao Fangzheng's voice had finally died away. Wen Zhuo withdrew his hand from his sleeve, turned his fingers over, and let a black go stone drop to the ground.
The stone bounced twice with a crisp clatter before lying still in a pool of blood.
It was he who spoke first, his smile laced with frost: "When will you return my Ode to Evening Mountains?"
"I..." Xie Langyang hadn't expected his own voice to come out trembling.
Wen Zhuo sneered. "Is Vice Minister Xie afraid?"
Xie Langyang wanted to say that he wasn't afraid—what he felt was pity for this man he so deeply empathized with.
Then Wen Zhuo spoke again: "No need to rush. You and Shen Chen will have your day too."
With that, he walked along the long avenue of the imperial hall, heading toward the palace gates.
Xie Langyang muttered to himself: "...Do you truly hate me this much?"
The sun shone bright and clear, the wind light and the clouds soft. Wen Zhuo couldn't be bothered to cast Xie Langyang another glance.
Once in his carriage, Wen Zhuo headed straight for the East Pavilion.
In the capital, there were four great go chess houses: the East Pavilion on Viewing Go Street, the West Pavilion on Bright Times Street, the South Pavilion on Ascent to Heaven Street, and the North Pavilion on Spirit Camphor Street.
Each chess house boasted over seven hundred private rooms of various sizes, capable of accommodating several thousand players for a round of go or sheer amusement.
Whenever a major event in the go world arose, the four houses would suspend a great go board at the center of their main halls, sharing key matches in real time for all patrons to appreciate and critique.
On ordinary days, the chess houses were just as bustling, and private rooms needed to be booked well in advance. Only high-ranking court officials enjoyed special privileges—dozens of prime suites on the fifth floor were reserved exclusively for them.
Wen Zhuo stepped inside, recited the first half of a poem, and was led by a waiter through a hidden passage into Room Jiazi.
Shen Zheng had arrived early this time—after all, he didn't need to attend the morning court.
The moment he entered, Wen Zhuo saw Shen Zheng reclining lazily by the go table, idly playing with a square gray stone. He would raise it in rhythm, then set it down, then switch hands and repeat the motion.
Wen Zhuo thought to himself: He must have gotten a taste for hard labor in Nanping—can't feel right if his hands aren't lifting something heavy.
Shen Zheng caught sight of Wen Zhuo and gave a wry smile. "I beg you, out of all of Zhao Shixiu's poems, you couldn't keep his most famous line about idly tapping go stones while lantern flames flicker? Instead you leave, 'Eternal vicissitudes beneath the vast blue-history dream'? If I hadn't studied broadly as a child, I might never have gotten in."
Wen Zhuo looked at him in surprise. "What's wrong with it? Zhao Shixiu's most celebrated poem is Composed at Gusu Terrace."
Shen Zheng was momentarily speechless.
The aesthetic gap between their eras was truly vast.
Wen Zhuo picked up a cloth cushion and knelt down, smoothing out the spread hem of his robe. As he moved, his collar loosened slightly, revealing a sliver of skin at his neck—fairer and softer than polished jade. The light streaming through the window seemed to glide silkily along its fine texture, carrying an inexhaustible allure.
Shen Zheng stared for a moment.
He couldn't imagine how handsome Song Yu or Pan An might have been, but if Wen Zhuo were transported to the modern world, he probably couldn't step outside without bringing the entire street to a standstill.
He wondered whether the scholars and history buffs of later ages who penned such vicious condemnations of Wen Zhuo might have shown a bit more mercy if they'd ever laid eyes on this face.
"There's a place called Sanlitun where I used to live," Shen Zheng said. "I guarantee, Teacher, you wouldn't stand there for a minute before someone whisked you away."
Wen Zhuo took out his go stones and placed them one by one on the star points, the komoku, and the san-san corners. Then, in an indifferent tone, he said, "Poverty breeds wickedness. That 'tun' you speak of sounds like some remote barren corner of Nanping, where the residents must be barbarians indeed."
Shen Zheng laughed again. "Not at all. Whether Sanlitun is poor is a matter of opinion, but wanting to carry you off? That's an objective fact."
Wen Zhuo cast him a sidelong glance.
Shen Zheng wisely covered his mouth with the stone, signaling he'd stop his nonsense.
Wen Zhuo said, "Move that rock of yours aside. It's a bit unnerving."
Shen Zheng: "No way—I searched high and low for it. Thick at both ends, narrow in the middle, fits my grip perfectly."
"What do you need it for?"
"Strength training. Activating my biceps so I'm no longer a walking twig."
Though Shen Zheng often spoke in that natural Nanping accent that Wen Zhuo couldn't follow, the term "strength training" he could understand.
He thought to himself that, after all, Shen Zheng did carry the bloodline of the Marquis of Yongning. Though he'd left the capital at eight, deep down he still had the soul of a warrior.
Wen Zhuo was quietly gratified, so his voice softened somewhat: "How much do you know about the Spring Terrace Go Tournament?"
Shen Zheng: "The grand event of the go world, once a year. Earn the title of National Master, and your destiny is rewritten—wealth and honor follow. But in decades, the title has almost always gone to those from the great clans, because they monopolize the most refined techniques of the game."
Wen Zhuo: "Exactly. It wasn't until I entered official service that I gained access to higher-level strategies. Now, watch closely the game I'm setting out for you."
Shen Zheng cut him off warily. "Hold on. The Spring Terrace Go Tournament starts in three days. Don't tell me you're planning to coach me up to National Master level to compete? Even force-fed growth couldn't be that extreme."
Wen Zhuo frowned, looking at him as if he'd said something utterly baffling. "You've taken me as your teacher, but I hold no such expectations for your talent."
Shen Zheng: "..." Hey now, I did score first in my entire province back in the day.
Wen Zhuo rapped his knuckles against the go board, shrewd calculation flickering in the corners of his eyes. "I only need you to memorize, move for move, the three game layouts I teach you before the final round."
"Three games?"
Shen Zheng was just registering his surprise when a thunderous clang of a gong split the air, rattling the fine willow leaves along the street.
A path opened through Viewing Go Street. A man in a slate-blue silk-embossed short jacket, a golden gong at his waist, walked along proclaiming: "The go players of Nanping have entered the capital for the Great Qian Spring Terrace Go Tournament! This time, we shall claim the top three places—and teach the go scholars of Qian that there are heavens beyond heavens, and masters beyond masters!"
Such brazen words naturally incited outrage among the players at the East Pavilion. Several of them, hot with fury, rushed forward to argue, only for the attendant to whip out a string of bright red firecrackers, strike a flint to light the fuse, and let off a crackling banshee of noise that drowned out the indignation of the Great Qian folk in celebration.
At the sound of the firecrackers, so much like that New Year's Eve, a flash of the blood-soaked torture rack in the long avenue of the imperial hall flooded Wen Zhuo's vision. Then, a bone-deep pain surged up with the noise, binding him tight in endless coils.
All color drained from his face. The go stone slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the board, rolling across the intricate web of black and white.
"What's wrong?" Shen Zheng's reflexes were quick—he grabbed Wen Zhuo's shoulder at once, and beneath his palm, he felt Wen Zhuo's body trembling faintly.
