Emperor Shunyuan had known all along that Shen Zheng was coming to the capital.
Yet he still refused to see him, because he didn't know how to face the son he had cast aside.
There was no deep father-son affection between them—that much was certain—but guilt and a twinge of conscience were only human nature, and so he wished he could drag this out until the end of time.
It was fortunate, then, that a certain Cao Fangzheng had barged onto the scene and, in his bumbling way, forced Emperor Shunyuan's hand, cornering him into a decision he could no longer avoid.
Now Shen Zheng had not only rescued Liu Qiying, but had earned himself an audience with Emperor Shunyuan entirely on his own merits. Within the hour, an imperial summons would surely arrive—far more direct and effective than any flowery praise Wen Zhuo might have whispered on his behalf.
Cao Fangzheng was still sprawled on the ground, trembling. Someone had already reported the full incident to the patrolling censor.
The Censorate had gotten involved, and the local officials retreated in perfect, wordless unison, wishing they could dissolve into the very air. After all, which official here didn't dread these imperial watchdogs who could impeach anyone on a whim?
As the crowd dispersed, Wen Zhuo was left standing in plain view.
He stood perfectly still, and the white wall beside him, the grey brick, the half-cluster of wild chrysanthemums—all of it seemed to pluck like a softly strung string, suddenly vivid and alive. He tucked away that captivating smile, lifted the hem of his robes, and walked cold-faced toward the hall, even the breeze swirling around him an extra turn or two.
“That—that’s Lord Wen!”
“So that’s Wen Zhuo, Lord Wen?”
Murmurs of astonishment rippled through the onlookers.
Everyone knew the head of the Hanlin Academy possessed a face lovelier than jade, but none had expected him to be this breathtaking in person.
Cao Fangzheng seemed to snap back to his senses at last. Clinging like a drowning man to a lifeline, he scrambled to Wen Zhuo’s feet and grabbed hold of the hem of his robe. “Lord Wen… Lord Wen! Please, plead my case before His Majesty! I—I—it wasn’t lèse-majesté, I swear, it’s all a misunderstanding!”
Cao Fangzheng wept and sniveled, crumpling Wen Zhuo’s robes, but Wen Zhuo didn’t spare him a glance. Instead, he said to Liu Qiying: “Come here.”
And so, right in front of all the local officials and constables, Liu Qiying walked over to stand behind Wen Zhuo, wearing the fresh welt across her skin and the torn clothes without a hint of shame.
Jiang Mannü quickly took off her own outer robe and wrapped it around Liu Qiying, then glared daggers at Cao Fangzheng.
The two of them—one plump, one thin, one tall, one short—stood in perfect lockstep at Wen Zhuo’s sides.
The crowd watched in even greater shock.
Only then did Wen Zhuo, unhurried, bend down to look at the terror-stricken Cao Fangzheng. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips—radiant, almost eerily so. “Does Commissioner Cao still want me to beg for mercy?”
“She—you—” Cao Fangzheng’s heart sank into utter despair.
His numbed mind couldn’t even connect Wen Zhuo to Bozhou six years ago. All he knew was that he was finished—that the rouge thief was Wen Zhuo’s person.
Wen Zhuo kicked Cao Fangzheng away in annoyance. The first kick didn’t move him, so he had to shove a second time.
Then he walked over to Shen Zheng, who stood there triumphant.
Shen Zheng had been waiting for Wen Zhuo to thank him, so he’d only bothered to fasten his belt halfway, the clasp hanging loose at his hip. His arms were folded, an index finger tapping idly against his sleeve, posture quietly self-satisfied.
Yet Wen Zhuo showed him no warmth at all, keeping his reputation for sharp-tongued ruthlessness fully intact.
“In full view of everyone, Your Highness actually spoke up for a mere maidservant?”
Shen Zheng laughed in spite of himself, deeply exasperated. “Mere maidservant? Isn’t she one of your own household?”
“And if she truly is a fugitive rogue who poses a threat to her master’s life, what’s wrong with Surveillance Commissioner Cao apprehending her?”
Shen Zheng tilted his head and studied Wen Zhuo, showing no real anger, wearing instead an expression of placid expectation, as if he’d known all along that Wen Zhuo would prove this cold-hearted.
“The problem is that ‘all people, high or low, have their dignity.’ Even a rogue cannot be stripped and whipped in public.”
All have their dignity?
Jiang Mannü and Liu Qiying exchanged glances. They half understood, half didn’t, but they knew the phrase was something new—and as they turned it over in their minds, it carried a heavy weight.
Wen Zhuo looked both aggrieved and resentful, and broke into mockery. “The Cao surname is noble. The Commissioner only sought to protect the people from harm. Even if his methods were excessive, everyone present can understand. Meanwhile, Your Highness insists on blowing a small matter out of proportion, dragging me into it for no reason.”
“…A viper wrapped in beauty, indeed.” Hearing that, Shen Zheng’s eyes turned calm and chill, as if drawing a sharp line between himself and everyone Wen Zhuo had described. “Apologies—I don’t understand, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Does Your Highness’s displeasure mean he may overturn the order of rank and status?”
“Don’t put that crown on my head. I don’t have the power to overturn anything. At most, this is fighting fire with fire.”
“And who exactly are you calling the fire?”
That was a dangerous question. When Cao Fangzheng had oppressed Liu Qiying, Shen Zheng had in turn wielded imperial authority against Cao Fangzheng. If Shen Zheng called that poison, then he was taking a jab at the most exalted figure of all.
Shen Zheng paused, then said with pointed surprise: “I was referring to the ‘poison’ in the Book of Changes—“using this poison to heal the world” where it means to govern. Director Wen is vastly learned—what else could you possibly have taken it to mean?”
The ball was tossed right back, making Wend Zhuo the one in perilous territory.
Wen Zhuo met Shen Zheng’s gaze with heavy-lidded eyes. Shen Zheng didn’t so much as flinch, his look so open and sincere that it seemed capable of stripping away the hard, carefully woven shell around Wen Zhuo’s heart and piercing straight through.
Wen Zhuo's gaze thawed like a lake in early spring—a sudden melt—and beneath the surface hid a trace of barely visible cunning.
He exhaled softly, lowered his voice, and murmured to Shen Zheng: “At the Hall of Military Valor, don’t bring up the Spring Terrace Chess Gathering.”
With that warning, he turned and left without giving anyone a moment to respond.
Reaching Liu Qiying, he asked: “Are you all right?”
Liu Qiying had long since learned Wen Zhuo’s tricks. She pressed a hand to her chest, arched her brows into a sorrowful droop, and let out little whimpers and gasps, as if half her spirit had drained away: “Not at all. I need to recuperate. Also… I need money.”
Wen Zhuo looked her up and down, his lips quirking upward. “In that case, may I suggest you go find yourself an old imperial physician?”
Liu Qiying choked on her breath and immediately caught on—this was payback!
He was still holding a grudge from last night’s bickering.
“Look how petty the master is,” she grumbled to Jiang Mannü.
Jiang Mannü nodded matter-of-factly. “That’s nothing new.”
Shen Zheng was so caught up in the vivid, almost tantalizing cleverness of Wen Zhuo that his thoughts lagged half a beat. When he turned back to Liu Qiying, there was not a trace of the poor girl about her—she was chatting away with the others, completely at ease.
Shen Zheng smiled to himself. “Born into this story as cannon fodder—quite a ride, honestly.”
When news from the residence reached the palace, Cao Fangzheng was thrown in prison without delay, and Shen Zheng got the audience with Emperor Shunyuan he’d hoped for.
Imperial Father-in-Law Cao was at home watching an opera when he heard that his son had committed the crime of lèse-majesté. The Cao household erupted in chaos in an instant, and even the Crown Prince was alarmed, scrambling to find ways to plead for his troublesome uncle.
Whatever followed no longer required Wen Zhuo’s involvement. The Crown Prince’s plea would fail—the Prince Xian faction was watching with hungry eyes, and they’d never let Cao Fangzheng have a chance at redemption.
To be fair, Wen Zhuo had spoken true: Shen Zheng’s move was flawless, but it had also painted both of them squarely onto the Crown Prince’s list of enemies.
For Wen Zhuo, that was nothing—it wasn’t the first time he’d toppled a crown prince, and this one was worth it.
But for Shen Zheng, was it worth it too?
As a prince, to care so deeply about the dignity of a maidservant—could it be that ten years in Nanping, drinking deep of this world’s cold and heat, had taught him something like that?
He no longer held any illusions about same-sex love, but if someone were willing to value the dignity of a commoner and could actually push things forward... well, that wouldn't be so bad.
Wen Zhuo kept turning over his encounters with Shen Zheng in his mind, and had to admit that compared to the "cuteness" that crossed boundaries, the look in Shen Zheng's eyes when he was serious was far harder for him to withstand.
At this moment, Wen Zhuo sat in his study while Jiang Mannü tended to Liu Qiying's wound.
A long, vicious whip mark, mottled purple and red, oozing fine threads of blood. As the white medicinal powder was applied, the pain made Liu Qiying's vision go black and her arm tremble.
But there was no other way to treat this injury except to let it heal. She gritted her teeth, pulled her clothes back on, and asked, "My lord, all those strange things the Fifth Prince said—did he learn them from Nanping?"
Wen Zhuo snapped back to attention, picked up a white stone, and held it suspended above the go board. He answered honestly, "I've never been to Nanping. I wouldn't know."
Liu Qiying spat out the pain-relieving tablet she'd been holding under her tongue and took a sip of sugar water. "Could it be that I've been blind all this time? The Fifth Prince is so different from how he's rumored to be."
Jiang Mannü said, "He's a decent sort, isn't he? He doesn't put on airs around our household. And when he was putting on that scary act just now, he really looked the part."
People's impressions are so easily overwritten. In the blink of an eye, Jiang Mannü had already forgotten that she'd seen Shen Zheng crawl under a table with her own eyes.
Jiang Mannü: "Don't you think so, my lord?"
Wen Zhuo replaced a white stone, then changed the order of the black ones, distracted: "No."
Liu Qiying winked at Jiang Mannü and gave a sly smile. "How can you say the Fifth Prince is decent? Easy for you to say—you weren't the one whose face he touched and teased."
The moment her words landed, there was a soft tap.
The stone between Wen Zhuo's fingers fell onto the table. His eyelids lifted slightly, and beneath them was a trace of embarrassed irritation at being called out: "If you two truly have that much leisure, go to the backyard flower field and dig up all those camellias. Don't disturb me while I'm doing real work."
Camellias?
Liu Qiying's expression shifted.
It was camellias that Vice Minister Xie had sent when he confessed his feelings.
Wen Zhuo had originally favored a plant called the immortality herb, but under Xie Langyang's influence, he'd come to love camellias instead, planting many in the backyard.
The last time Wen Zhuo had dug up the camellias was when he'd first returned to the capital, when he discovered that Xie Langyang had taken a wife.
That woman was gentle and demure, clearly a lady from a distinguished family. When she learned that Wen Zhuo was Xie Langyang's former classmate and close friend, and had just moved into a new residence, she went out of her way to gift him a set of celadon tea ware—reportedly fired at the Ru kiln, no small expense. She'd spent three days selecting the perfect set.
Wen Zhuo accepted it, and then, right in front of Xie Langyang, hurled it onto the bluestone slab. The porcelain shattered into pieces in an instant—a treasure born of a hundred taels of silver, reduced to scattered wreckage.
Xie Langyang let him vent without a single harsh word. Only after Wen Zhuo had exhausted his anger did he pull the man tightly into his arms, his body taut, soft sobs mixed with helplessness: "It's not what you think..."
Wen Zhuo had his pride and wasn't so easily appeased. He deliberately sulked at Xie Langyang for two full years. It wasn't until later, during the emperor's autumn hunt, when Wen Zhuo got caught in the rain and caught a chill at Qingping Mountain, and Xie Langyang stayed up all night tending the fire and changing his cloths without a single complaint, that the ice in Wen Zhuo's heart finally began to thaw.
These past two days had seemed calm on the surface—why was he suddenly asking for Ode to Evening Mountains and digging up camellias?
Liu Qiying couldn't meddle in Wen Zhuo's affairs of the heart, but she still couldn't help feeling pained for him.
She quietly closed the door behind her and slipped out with Jiang Mannü, keeping their voices low.
Jiang Mannü hefted a hoe onto her shoulder and asked, "Dig them up?"
Liu Qiying clenched her jaw. "Dig! Why is it that he had to go and marry someone? Why is our lord the one who has to hold out?"
The lamp in the study burned all through the night.
Before Wen Zhuo, three go boards sat side by side on his desk. He gazed down at them, and in his mind, a scroll unfurled, stroke by stroke, sketching out the chess games from three years ago.
In those three matches back then, every move, every offense and defense, had been nothing short of masterful.
Following the images in his mind, he reproduced all three games down to the last detail, then began dismantling them from the very first stone, peeling back the order of each placement with pinpoint precision.
His knuckles were turning pale, and he was nearing exhaustion.
But this review could not afford a single error. He had to achieve a perfect reproduction.
In all the world, only he—with his solid chess skills and virtually flawless memory—could overturn this one board for Shen Zheng.
