Stepping out of the dappled shadows of the locust trees, Gong Zhiyuan's face emerged under the moonlight.
Only when the red-lacquered sedan chair disappeared into the alley did he finally speak: "Did you get a good look at Director Wen's expression just now?"
"He seemed startled," a thin figure wrapped in a pink cloak shuffled out from beneath the trees, pulling back its hood to reveal a face full of anxiety and unease.
"For a man to be frightened in a place like the Dali Temple prison? That doesn't add up." Gong Zhiyuan was puzzled but could not quite piece together the reason.
Gong Yuwen said, "Father, let's go see Master Xie first."
Only then did Gong Zhiyuan withdraw his gaze and stride toward the vermilion gate, which stood over ten feet tall.
By rights, anyone who was not a chief or associate trial official would have no right to visit a prisoner at such a time. But as Grand Secretary, with his deeply entrenched connections across the court, such a minor matter was but a lift of his hand.
Before entering, he left a single instruction: "It's filthy inside. Wait out here."
Gong Yuwen seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and remained silent.
The prison corridor was deep and dark, and a chill crept over the skin. Gong Zhiyuan was led to Xie Langyang's cell, where he found the young man in a state of utter dejection and ruin.
His robes were thin, his lips had turned blue from the cold, and his once-clean attire was now smudged with dirt and grime.
"Hengze," Gong Zhiyuan called out.
Xie Langyang heard the voice and looked up in disbelief—yet, on second thought, it was hardly surprising.
"Teacher." He quickly rose, gripping the wooden bars to steady himself, and offered a bow.
Gong Zhiyuan nodded. Xie Langyang had always been proper and measured in his conduct, knowing exactly where the line was. After years of marriage to Yuwen, he had remained disciplined and restrained. His judgement in choosing this son-in-law had been sound.
"Time is short, so I won't beat around the bush. Do you have any clue about what happened today?"
Before coming, he had repeatedly consulted with members of the Crown Prince's faction. Some suggested Xie Langyang had deliberately lured the Eight Lineages into a trap—but he had immediately dismissed that idea.
Xie Langyang was a direct descendant of the Xie family, a beneficiary of the current order. Why would he turn against the great clans?
Moreover, if he truly wished to harm the Eight Lineages, why would he implicate himself and take on the crime of framing a prince?
Gong Zhiyuan racked his brains and concluded that the problem most likely lay with the Emperor himself.
He might not be as skilled at divining the Emperor's intent as the eunuch Liu Quan, but after years of navigating the treacherous waters of officialdom, he had a fairly good read on the old man's temperament.
The Fifth Prince was the most obvious suspect—but how exactly had he gained the Emperor's trust?
Xie Langyang hung his head, his voice tinged with bitterness: "Perhaps... it was Director Wen's doing."
Gong Zhiyuan frowned. "Wen Zhuo? Impossible. These past days he's been busy being the living showpiece by the Huìyáng Gate, bewitching those painters so thoroughly they're all but swooning. He has never once met with His Majesty in private. And besides, the man is a lone official—what would he stand to gain from this?"
Xie Langyang slowly lifted his gaze and studied Gong Zhiyuan's face—those prominent cheekbones, that stern, oppressive expression.
He thought to himself: In my last life, during the trial in court, if you had shown Wen Zhuo a sliver of mercy, preserved a fragment of his final dignity, perhaps he might have been more lenient with you. But you are precisely the kind of man who leaves no room to breathe.
"I cannot say for certain, either," Xie Langyang said, looking away from Gong Zhiyuan's eyes. "But when Director Wen was questioning me earlier, he made his intentions quite clear."
"Wen Zhuo... Wen Zhuo..." Gong Zhiyuan repeated the name, more baffled than ever.
Was Wen Zhuo trying to destroy them, or was he helping the Fifth Prince?
Or had the Emperor already harbored designs against the great clans, and given Wen Zhuo his silent signal?
"Whatever truly happened in the palace today, I will find out soon enough." Gong Zhiyuan steadied himself. "What matters now is how you deal with the trial in three days."
He intended to protect Xie Langyang—firstly because Xie Langyang was his hidden chess piece planted in the Ministry of Personnel, and secondly because the man had married his daughter.
If Xie Langyang fell, the charge of framing a prince would be enough for the entire household to be executed, and the Gong family would not escape the fallout either.
Xie Langyang knew this as well. Tomorrow was his day of reckoning, but his mind was in such turmoil that he could not summon the calm needed to devise a strategy.
Gong Zhiyuan's voice rang out again: "I will tell Xie Pingzheng to confess to the crime in your stead."
Xie Langyang's eyes snapped open wide, his pupils contracting sharply. It was as if Gong Zhiyuan's words had seized his heart in a vice, cutting off his breath.
Almost coldly, Gong Zhiyuan continued: "Xie Pingzheng is on the envoy list from Nanping. He's beyond saving either way. Let him take an additional charge—it's only right, so you can be spared. Besides, you had no part in the Xie family's schemes, so you're the easiest to extract."
Gong Zhiyuan's greatest regret was that, in the chaos, he had slipped a step and failed to negotiate terms with Wu Kan at the Huìyáng Gate.
Now everything was too late. The Emperor had trapped them all in the Wǔyīng Hall, ordering Liu Quan to rush the man back to the palace for an emergency interrogation at the Qīngliáng Hall. Wu Kan had surrendered without much resistance and confessed everything. The men on that list—he probably could not save a single one.
What he understood even less was: Nanping had already won the victory. Why couldn't Wu Kan simply take his flawless triumph and return to Nanping? Why expose everything and end in mutual ruin?
Seeing Xie Langyang still frozen in place, as if he had lost his soul, Gong Zhiyuan added: "Don't trouble yourself over this. I'll explain to Xie Pingzheng. It's for the greater good."
Xie Langyang suddenly realized that Wen Zhuo had already foreseen this very outcome. That was why his earlier words were not a warning about how to face the trial—they were yet another push forcing Xie Langyang into an impossible dilemma, step by step severing his chance of ever becoming a truly upright minister.
Xie Langyang collapsed onto the straw mat, his entire body going cold.
And in that moment, he realized with a searing grief that he could not voice a single word of refusal. Faced with life and death, he too was a coward. His humanity, his principles—they could not withstand the test either.
Gong Zhiyuan watched him and felt a flicker of displeasure. This student of his had many virtues, but at times his righteousness bordered on obstinacy.
Being upright was a fine quality, of course, and it gave Gong Zhiyuan peace of mind regarding Gong Yuwen's future. But when it came to the cutthroat games of the court, it was simply dead weight.
In this world, you either kill or be killed. There was no room for such an abundance of conscience.
"Also, I've already contacted numerous courtiers and officials from the great clans. Tomorrow, we will petition the Emperor together to show mercy. This matter never touched upon state secrets—just a few manuals on Go strategy. Exposing it further would only embarrass the court. Perhaps His Majesty will choose to minimize it all and simply issue a small punishment as a lesson."
Xie Langyang murmured: "You intend to pressure His Majesty?"
Gong Zhiyuan replied: "The Eight Lineages have deep roots. If the Emperor wishes to move against them, he must consider whether doing so would throw the entire court into turmoil and destabilize the people's morale. Moreover, I've already asked the Crown Prince to write a letter to the Grand Tutor at Taìqīng Bieyusàn, requesting his intervention."
"Grand Tutor Liu—Liu Changbai!"
Liu Changbai had once been the tutor to Emperor Shùnyuán, and later had taught the Crown Prince. In recent years, due to poor health, he had requested to retire to Taìqīng Bieyusàn to recuperate and had ceased involving himself in court affairs.
To outsiders, Liu Changbai appeared to be a man of exceptional cultivation—unworldly, modest, and free of ambition.
But who in this mortal world could truly be without selfish motives?
In his last life, when Emperor Shùnyuán planned to depose the Crown Prince, it was Liu Changbai who stepped forward to fiercely oppose the decision—going so far as to dash his head against a pillar in the Wǔyīng Hall, killing himself on the spot.
His death had nearly undone Wen Zhuo's carefully laid plans. Though everything had ultimately turned out fine in the end, it had nearly given the Crown Prince a chance at turning the tables.
A glimmer of light flickered in Xie Langyang's eyes, and he dared to feel a spark of anxious hope: "With the Grand Tutor stepping in, His Majesty will naturally have to show some respect. Then would my uncle and the other members of the Xie family be able to...?"
Gong Zhiyuan said in a low voice: "The Xie clan's line—he was the mastermind, and with the added crime of framing a prince, I can only do my best to keep the rest of the Xie family from being implicated."
Xie Langyang stared blankly, lost and dejected.
The Spring Terrace Go Tournament case had already thrown the court into chaos, and even Liu Changbai's appearance had been moved up. What came next was anyone's guess.
Gong Zhiyuan's meeting with Xie Pingzheng was even shorter—just a few brief words. Xie Pingzheng seemed to have long anticipated his own fate; not a trace of surprise crossed his face. He only said, with a weary, weathered voice: "If I don't take the blame, who will? Winners take all, losers take nothing. I'll accept the stakes."
From the very first day, he had known: win, and you gain the merit of supporting a new emperor, boundless wealth and honor, glory for your entire clan.
Lose, and it's total ruin—head severed from body, ground to dust and mud.
As they emerged from the Dali Temple prison, a mist had gathered around the moon, hazy and indistinct, like the fog shrouding everyone's hearts.
"Father, how is Xie Lang?" Gong Yuwen asked urgently.
Gong Zhiyuan clasped his hands behind his back and said flatly: "Everything has been arranged. From now on, you and he must contribute more to the Gong family. Now that you've joined the Crown Prince's faction, stay away from that worthless woman—no need to invite suspicion."
Gong Yuwen gave a slight bow: "Yuwen will not be as shortsighted as my sister. I will do everything in my power for the Gong family, for eldest brother, and for little brother."
Gong Zhiyuan walked toward the sedan chair waiting at the mouth of the alley, leaving behind one line: "I should have married you off to the Crown Prince in the first place."
A leaf drifted down from the old locust tree, falling into the dirty black mud. Gong Yuwen slowly raised his eyes, and in them flowed a dark, frigid current as murky as that mud.
The next day, the Dali Temple conducted the interrogation.
Xue Chongnian sat in the seat of honor, while Wen Zhuo sat to his left—the left being the position of greater respect, a clear sign that his status in this matter outranked Xue Chongnian's.
With more than eighty people, the courtroom couldn't hold them all at once, so they had to be tried in batches.
Just yesterday, these men had been colleagues of equal rank at court; today they were prisoners before the magistrate. Many officials still couldn't wrap their heads around it, standing in the courtroom with heads held high, dragging things out in every way possible.
Xue Chongnian, mindful of old friendships, kept his tone relatively civil, urging them to confess early to spare themselves suffering and to avoid angering the emperor.
He had already heard rumors that the eight aristocratic lineages, the Crown Prince, and the Prince Xian faction were all quietly maneuvering, likely to try to protect these men.
In that case, Xue Chongnian had to weigh his options carefully.
If Emperor Shunyuan buckled under the pressure and let these men off with a slap on the wrist, how could he ever face his former colleagues in court again?
Besides, by law, criminal trials fell under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Justice; the Dali Temple was responsible only for reviewing cases and overturning verdicts. This case had been transferred to it only because it involved high-ranking court officials and the evidence was conclusive.
Xue Chongnian had never been fond of using torture, so he patiently dragged out the pace of the trial as slowly as he could.
Wen Zhuo sat to one side, watched for half a day, and finally grew impatient.
He gently fanned himself with his folding fan and said with an air of indifference: "At the pace you're going, Xue-daren, we won't finish in thirty days, will we?"
Xue Chongnian caught the implication in his words and hurriedly cupped his hands with a smile: "This humble official truly cannot bear to be too harsh on my former colleagues. I hoped they might remember His Majesty's grace and redeem their sins on their own. But these men seem incorrigible—what would Director Wen suggest?"
Wen Zhuo ran his fingers over the papers on the desk and said lightly, “Since they refuse to mend their ways, why let the Dali Temple’s instruments of torture gather dust? I rather like the look of those finger presses. Scholars, after all, treasure their hands—if their finger bones break, they can no longer write calligraphy or play Go.”
"That... wouldn't be quite appropriate, would it?"
"What are you afraid of, Xue-daren?" Wen Zhuo tapped the table lightly with the tip of his fan. "The idea is mine, and I'm the one sent by His Majesty. Even if they hold a grudge, they'll blame me first."
"Of course, of course—we're all serving His Majesty, purging traitors from the court." Xue Chongnian wiped the sweat from his brow, terrified that Wen Zhuo might suddenly add, "Even if they hold a grudge, they'll blame the emperor first." Wen Zhuo might dare say such a thing, but he didn't dare hear it.
With Wen Zhuo pressing him on, Xue Chongnian no longer dared to show mercy. He slapped the gavel hard and roared: "Drag these obstinate wretches out, put them to the rack, and then let them speak!"
The Dali Temple was immediately filled with howls and wails. These scions of noble families, who usually carried themselves with such pride and haughtiness, cried no more elegantly than common folk once they were put to the question.
After a round of torture, the pace of the interrogation picked up considerably.
The clerks scribbled furiously, recording confessions entry by entry.
There were indeed a few tough ones in the crowd—men who had endured the torture and still refused to yield, cursing Xue Chongnian to his face: "Xue Chongnian! This is torture to force a confession! When I get out of here, I swear I'll file a charge against you!"
Xue Chongnian's face turned livid: "Not beaten hard enough. Drag him out—beat him again!"
Once he hardened his heart, the trial moved with thunderous speed.
Some had only known about the plot without being directly involved—at most, a case of failing to report what they knew. For them, a single line or two sufficed as confession.
Those on the list fared far worse. Unable to withstand the torture, they poured out a flood of confessions—even voluntarily disclosing how much they'd embezzled in the past and which political rivals they'd crushed.
The interrogation went on until the dead of night.
Wen Zhuo drank strong tea to keep himself awake, red veins already threading through his eyes. Xue Chongnian yawned endlessly, barely staying upright, but even so, he didn't dare slack off, determined to meet the deadline.
"Speak! Who told you to frame the Fifth Prince?" The same question, repeated so many times that Xue Chongnian's voice had gone flat and numb.
Everyone said they didn't know—they'd just gone along with it. To avoid punishment, even after the instruments of torture did their rounds, they still said they didn't know.
A few even made wild accusations against their political enemies, clearly fabricated.
Xue Chongnian also didn't want to beat them into accusing each other left and right—that would become a farce. So when he truly couldn't wring anything more out of someone, he let them go for the time being.
"...I don't know." Xie Langyang kept his head lowered, his voice hoarse.
"Another 'I don't know.'" Xue Chongnian was so sleepy he could barely focus on anyone's face. On reflex, he waved his hand: "Drag him out first, put him on the finger press, and see if he—"
"It was me!" A sudden shout jolted Xue Chongnian so much he nearly toppled out of his chair.
He snapped awake and looked carefully—it was actually Xie Pingzheng.
"Commissioner Xie? You?"
Xie Pingzheng forced out a cold, bitter smile. Gray-white strands of hair stuck to his face, making a night's torment look even more wretched.
He closed his eyes: "Yes, it was me. The moment I saw the Nanping Go player win, I knew His Majesty would be furious. The Great Qian Empire's dignity had been trampled—someone had to pay the price. I was afraid and guilty, so I devised this scheme, framing the Fifth Prince, who had just returned from Nanping. I never expected His Majesty's keen eye to see right through my plot. This, too, is my just deserts."
Xue Chongnian's spirits lifted—finally, progress. He rose to his feet and thundered: "Xie Pingzheng! Do you know what crime it is to frame a prince?!"
Xie Pingzheng staggered backward, his legs trembling uncontrollably. Though he was clearly terrified to the core, he still gritted his teeth and said: "I... I know. I had no other choice!"
"A single 'no other choice' doesn't excuse your sin! Your heart was corrupt and your intentions deserve death!"
Xie Langyang's body was shaking. His eyes were fixed stubbornly on the ground—he dared not look at anything, dared not hear anything.
Wen Zhuo raised his teacup and swept a sidelong glance at him.
It seemed, thought Wen Zhuo, that Xie Langyang hadn't been wholly unprepared for this outcome after all.
Wen Zhuo set his teacup down beside him and spoke slowly, “There’s no other choice. People always love to find excuses for themselves. When others err, it’s a heinous crime; when it’s their turn, it becomes ‘I had no choice, I was left with no way out.’ Don’t you agree, Vice Minister Xie?”
Xie Langyang trembled at the words, as if his heart and soul were shattering. He knelt low in agony, choking out, “Wanshan...”
He wasn’t facing Xue Chongnian—he was facing Wen Zhuo, as if begging Wen Zhuo to stop speaking, or as if repenting for the countless times he too had claimed to have no other choice.
Wen Zhuo loathed this look on him. If you’ve decided to betray, then don’t waffle. Stand up and declare war outright—burn your bridges and be done with it. But to betray, and still want to betray with an air of noble righteousness, hoping others will forgive you—that was nothing short of hypocritical and theatrical.
“Since Commissioner Xie has willingly confessed and accepted his guilt, Vice Minister Xie, you won’t have to endure torture,” Wen Zhuo said, his tone laced with mockery. “Why don’t you thank your uncle for being so wise and virtuous?”
Xie Langyang knocked his forehead hard against the blue bricks, the thuds echoing out, tears mingling with drops of blood from his brow as he broke into muffled sobs of sorrow.
He didn’t want to bear the weight of his uncle’s entire family’s lives. Why wouldn’t Wen Zhuo grant him even a shred of mercy?
“Director Wen, perhaps we could…” Xue Chongnian’s words were cut off—before he could finish, the sound of rapid footsteps came from outside the court, like an escalating drumroll shattering the dreariness of the day.
In came Ge Wei, an eunuch from the Directorate of Ceremonial Affairs, panting heavily. In a shrill voice, he declared, “By His Majesty’s decree—pause the interrogation for now. We shall deliberate and notify you at a later time!”
Xue Chongnian’s expression shifted instantly, cold sweat beading on his brow again. “Steward, why would this happen?”
He feared the Emperor would change his mind. And lo and behold, the Emperor actually had.
But the officials of the Eight Meridians who had come to observe the proceedings broke into unbridled delight—they sensed their opportunity had come.
Xie Langyang’s sobs gradually ceased. He lifted his tear-stained face, a faint glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes.
Xie Pingzheng’s originally pallid cheeks also gained a touch of color.
They were like drowning men, desperately clinging to the Emperor as their last lifeline, their gazes toward Ge Wei turning almost devout.
Wen Zhuo watched Ge Wei with a calm, steady gaze.
Ge Wei’s sole purpose in this post was to relay intelligence to Wen Zhuo. Having delivered the imperial edict, he hurried to Wen Zhuo’s side and said in a low voice: “Director Wen, Grand Tutor Liu Changbai is currently kneeling outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation along with a crowd of court officials. He claims this is merely a chess rivalry among the Eight Meridians—some may have been driven to obsession, but it doesn’t rise to the level of treason and betrayal—so he’s begging His Majesty to extend mercy, minimize bloodshed, and avoid throwing the court into turmoil and unsettling the people’s hearts.”
Xue Chongnian was the first to react with alarm: “What do you mean, a chess rivalry among the Eight Meridians—they are clearly...”
Clearly—this was a succession dispute.
But those four words, Xue Chongnian dared not utter aloud.
“Director Wen, what do you think? We’ve already gotten this far in the interrogation... How about the two of us go to the palace now and see His Majesty, ask what’s going on, and then decide our next move?”
No sooner had those words been said than the Eight Meridians officials erupted into uproar. Someone pointed at Xue Chongnian and cursed, “Xue Chongnian, you’re scared now! This was always a chess rivalry! But you resorted to torture, forcing us to confess to colluding with the enemy—I’m not done with you!”
“Once I’m reinstated, I shall file an impeachment against you!”
“Not just you—” another man glared at Wen Zhuo, “—and you, Director Wen! You roam about with no sense of decency, harboring faults of your own. What right do you have to interrogate us?”
“Hengze, get up! Don’t kneel to them!”
The situation had taken a sudden turn. The courtroom descended into loud, raucous quarrels, the earlier aura of grim execution utterly dissipated.
Those very officials who had moments before been howling and begging for mercy under torture now puffed themselves back up into their former authority, as if they weren’t prisoners awaiting trial, but censors come to hold others accountable.
Wen Zhuo paid them no mind. In a low voice, he asked, “How long has the Grand Tutor been kneeling?”
Ge Wei said, “Already two hours.”
Wen Zhuo asked again, “How long till dawn?”
Ge Wei paused, then quickly replied, “Roughly one hour.”
Wen Zhuo leaned back against his chair, eyelids drooping wearily, and said absentmindedly, “Then we wait until dawn.”
“Director Wen?” Xue Chongnian was dumbfounded. He said anxiously, “What time is this? What if the Grand Tutor manages to sway the Emperor, and he truly drops the case? Won’t all our work be for nothing?”
Wen Zhuo closed his eyes and asked, “Lord Xue, on what grounds is the Grand Tutor pressuring the Emperor?”
Xue Chongnian wet his dry lips. “He says that dealing with over eighty high-ranking officials will inevitably shake the court...”
Wen Zhuo propped his cheek against his palm, his lashes low to the ground, as if he was about to surrender to sleep—yet still possessed an unhurried air of seeing through everything: “And what would be even more frightening than a shaken court?”
Xue Chongnian stood frozen, unable to answer.
What could be more frightening than a shaken court?
The deepest, darkest part of the night had already passed. The east was turning blue, thin clouds scraping off their gray to join the excitement of the golden sun rising from the sea.
Outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation, Liu Changbai knelt on the cold blue bricks, his long beard trembling in the dawn breeze, like a withered tree leaning into a cliff face, dividing the light and shadow of the great palace.
Emperor Shunyuan hadn’t slept all night, coughing until his head spun. His eyes, exhausted and irritable, fixed on the stalemate before him. “I’ve already suspended the investigation—what more do they want? To come and make a display of power against Me?! Liu Quan, send the Grand Tutor back at once!”
Liu Quan bowed and withdrew to relay the message.
Soon, Liu Changbai’s aged yet thunderous voice rang out, “Your Majesty, I cannot go back! If Your Majesty, in a fit of rage today, condones cruel punishment and has more than eighty courtiers tortured, dismissed, or killed, then I—as your Imperial Tutor—have failed the trust of the late Emperor and betrayed the very foundations of our Great Qian dynasty!”
Shunyuan trembled with fury. He shoved aside Liu Quan, leaning on his dragon-headed cane, and shouted through the palace doors, “Liu Changbai, are you trying to force My hand?!”
Liu Changbai remained unmoved, his face bearing the resolve of one who has made peace with death: “This matter all stems from the treachery of Nanping sowing discord. Great Qian must not descend into civil turmoil, Your Majesty! For the sake of a mere game of chess, to execute the capable and wise ministers of this court—that is precisely falling into Nanping’s trap! How can we then stabilize the world and put the people’s hearts at ease? Even if I have to dash my own body to pieces and kill myself on these palace steps, I would never stand by and watch the court of Great Qian fall into panic and the foundations of this nation crumble!”
Shunyuan’s arms shook violently, his face dark as still water.
The sovereign and his tutor faced off across the threshold of the palace doors, neither willing to yield an inch.
The morning sun finally ripped through the horizon, leaping up over the sea, its piercing rays stabbing through every corner of the Forbidden City, stretching the toppled, kneeling silhouettes into bizarrely elongated shadows.
Liu Changbai’s legs had long gone stiff, but he still held his head high, chest out. Beside him, in half-crouched, half-kneeling postures, were grand secretaries like Gong Zhiyuan and Bu Zhangyi, offering up perfunctory words of counsel.
Shunyuan watched the scene, and finally let out a long sigh, closing his eyes in helpless defeat.
As emperor, he had lived an ordinary life, attempting reform multiple times but always letting it fizzle out because too many interests were entwined.
Dragging things out, ignoring them, retreating from them, postponing them—and so the years of his reign drifted to their end.
How would the history books judge him?
Over twenty years on the throne: lost battles, sent hostages, feared his own generals, indulged the great families—achieved nothing at all.
Then, all of a sudden!
The patrolling censor ran up to the hall, cap and shoes askew, and dropped to his knees in a heap, drenched in sweat.
"Your Majesty! The matter of the eight-rank officials secretly colluding with Nanping has been leaked by unknown means—now every chess player in the capital knows! Led by the Four Great Chess Houses, they are gathering and marching toward the palace walls, kneeling to beg Your Majesty to execute those who have betrayed the realm, to clear the name of the Great Qian chess players! Your Majesty, the people's fury is boiling over and growing worse by the hour—by noon it will be beyond control!"
Gong Zhiyuan heard these words and felt as if struck by thunder, his heart sinking into the sea. He whipped his head toward Bu Zhangyi: "How could this happen? How do the common folk know?!"
Bu Zhangyi's eyes were likewise split with rage: "Why are you looking at me? Do you think I would go and tell them?!"
Emperor Shunyuan, hearing clearly from within the hall, suddenly opened his eyes, alarmed: "How many people are among the common folk right now?"
The Censor: "A rough estimate puts it at over ten thousand, and the numbers keep growing. Your Majesty, please make a decision soon!"
Emperor Shunyuan pushed open the door and strode out, pointing furiously at Liu Changbai: "Let me ask you, Grand Tutor—you worried about upheaval in the court, but what of the upheaval among the people now?! You said the hearts of the courtiers were unsettled—what, then, of the hearts of the populace?! Am I to yield to you court officials, or to the people of this realm?!"
Liu Changbai wavered on his feet, his features trembling, and collapsed to the ground with a thud, aged ten years in an instant.
He knew all his efforts that day were in vain. If the matter had remained within the court, there might still have been room to maneuver—but once popular fury was ignited, the emperor's first duty was to quell the people's anger.
And to quell the people's anger, one often had to overcorrect.
The new sun rose in first light, warm radiance boiling over, casting the glazed tiles in a brilliant shimmer.
The men of the Court of Judicial Review had not slept all night, and at last the new decree arrived—
"By imperial order, Wen Zhuo and Xue Chongnian shall rigorously try the case of the Spring Terrace Chess Gathering. Offenders shall have their punishment increased by three degrees, to make an example of one and warn a hundred. The wronged shall be vindicated and exonerated, so that none suffer injustice. All officials shall take this case as a warning. Upon the conclusion of the trial, the verdict shall be proclaimed to the people in all directions, to calm the public grievance and uphold the court's image of justice and solemnity."
Wen Zhuo knelt to receive the decree, then slowly rose to his feet. He turned to the presiding judge, who was still staring in a daze, and asked with a smile: "Lord Xue—what is more terrifying than upheaval within the court?"
