The small boat rocked gently as it made its way toward the prefectural city.
Sun Qian stood at the bow.
Watching the flood- besieged city draw closer, a jumble of emotions churned in his chest.
Murky yellow water slapped against the hull, splashing flecks of mud onto the hem of his official robes, leaving dark, spreading stains.
He glanced down, instinctively wanting to brush them off. His fingers twitched, then stopped.
This was no time to fuss over such things.
The attendant behind him asked in a low voice, "My lord, if we go back... will we still be able to get out?"
Sun Qian did not answer.
He looked toward the dark, crowded figures on the city wall. The common folk were still lining up to board the boats, the queue snaking along the inner wall, stretching beyond the eye could see. Someone was weeping softly. Someone clutched a child, looking about anxiously. Others sat slumped against the brickwork, eyes vacant, staring at the sky.
Sun Qian's Adam's apple bobbed.
Earlier, on the hill, the Sixth Prince's words had cut into his heart like a knife, leaving him so wounded that he couldn't even muster a defense.
He was the prefect!
The father-and-mother official of this Yunyang Prefecture.
When the flood surrounded the city and boats arrived to evacuate people, he had not hesitated for even a moment to abandon the common folk and flee first. No matter how many excuses he might conjure, that was the fact.
Now the Sixth Prince wanted to see Zhao Wenhuan, and for Zhao Wenhuan to come out, the city needed someone of sufficient rank to go back and hold things down. Naturally, that someone had to be him, the prefect.
Even though he didn't want to go back. Didn't want to return to that isolated city again.
But he had no choice!
If he did well, perhaps he could salvage a few points in his favor.
If he did poorly...
Sun Qian dared not think about it.
When the boat reached the shore, people were already waiting at the foot of the city wall.
Zhao Wenhuan stood at the water's edge, trousers rolled up past the knees, barefoot in the mud. His green official robe was crumpled, the hem caked in mud, sleeves frayed at the edges. He looked utterly worn out.
Yet his spine remained ramrod straight.
Sun Qian looked at him, a complicated feeling rising in his chest. He stepped forward, cupped his hands, and offered a bow. "Lord Zhao, you have worked hard."
Zhao Wenhuan glanced at him, said nothing, only gave a slight nod by way of greeting.
The two passed each other.
Sun Qian climbed the city wall with heavy steps, while Zhao Wenhuan boarded the small boat and set off toward the hill on the opposite shore.
When the boat reached mid-river, Zhao Wenhuan turned to look back at the flood-besieged city. The collapsed embankment was still gushing water, the murky yellow current carrying sand and silt, like a beast that could never be sated.
He looked away.
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
On the muddy bank, an attendant was already waiting.
When he saw Zhao Wenhuan disembark, he gave him a once-over and frowned slightly — this former deputy prefect of Yunyang did not cut a very presentable figure: drenched all over, his official robe wrinkled like over-pickled vegetables.
But he said nothing, only gestured with his hand. "Lord Zhao, His Highness is waiting for you in the tent. Please follow me."
Zhao Wenhuan nodded and followed the attendant deeper into the camp.
Along the way, he saw many familiar faces — the officials from the Court of Judicial Review, the very ones who had interrogated him just days earlier, now standing in small clusters outside their tents. As they saw him approach, their gazes landed on him all at once.
There was scrutiny in those looks.
There was appraisal.
And something else, hard to define.
Zhao Wenhuan's expression remained calm, his steps unhurried, as if those eyes meant nothing to him.
The commander's tent was pitched at the highest point of the hill, commanding an open view, with breezes from all sides. The tent flap was drawn open, and shadowy figures could be seen moving within.
The attendant stopped outside the tent and announced.
"Your Highness, Zhao Wenhuan, Deputy Prefect of Yunyang, has arrived."
"Enter."
The flap was lifted, and Zhao Wenhuan bent down and stepped inside.
The light inside the tent was dimmer than outside. A few candles burned quietly in the corners, casting the figures within in shifting light and shadow.
He raised his head and swept his gaze across the tent.
In the center stood a long table, its surface spread with maps and documents. Brush, ink, paper, and inkstone were set to one side, the ink freshly ground, still glistening with moisture.
Behind the long table sat a young man in a dark brocade robe, a jade belt at his waist. His features were composed, his gaze deep as still water. When those eyes looked at a person, it was not like looking at a man — it was like reviewing a memorial: calm, deliberate, devoid of feeling.
The Sixth Prince, Li Chengyu.
Zhao Wenhuan withdrew his gaze, stepped forward, stopped before the table, and clasped his hands, bowing in salute.
"Zhao Wenhuan, Deputy Prefect of Yunyang, pays his respects to Your Highness."
His voice was a little hoarse — a mark of days spent short on food and water, and nights of wind on the city walls — but beneath the rasp, there was a steadiness.
Neither servile nor arrogant.
Li Chengyu did not speak at once. He leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze settle on Zhao Wenhuan, top to bottom, bottom to top, taking him in slowly.
Forty-some years of age. A lean face, slightly prominent cheekbones, sunken eye sockets — the traces of days and nights of relentless toil. His official robe was wrinkled, the hem covered in mud, sleeves rolled to the wrist, revealing a scratch on his arm that had already formed a scab, from some bump or scrape he'd taken somewhere.
Haggard, truly haggard.
But his spine was still straight. He stood there like a bamboo that had been bent by the wind yet never broken.
Judging by appearance alone.
He didn't look like a man of great treachery or wickedness.
But he knew well enough that appearances proved nothing.
The corrupt don't wear their crimes on their faces. Those insects who put on a show of righteousness in the court while preying on the common folk behind closed doors — which of them didn't look respectable enough?
"Zhao Wenhuan." He spoke, his voice neither loud nor soft, flat as if reading an official document.
"Your subject is here."
"I've summoned you because there are a few questions I need to ask you."
Zhao Wenhuan bowed slightly. "Your Highness, please ask."
The tent fell silent for a moment.
Behind the long table, Li Chengyu did not speak. His gaze shifted away from Zhao Wenhuan, his head tilting slightly, as if signaling someone.
Zhao Wenhuan was momentarily taken aback. Following his gaze, he looked to his side.
A young figure stepped out from behind the Sixth Prince.
He was dressed in a pale blue casual robe, a leather belt at his waist. His frame was slender, his features handsome. He looked no more than twenty-some years old.
Pei Cijing walked to a stop in front of Zhao Wenhuan.
He stood still.
His eyes met Zhao Wenhuan's at level gaze.
The candlelight in the tent cast shifting shadows across his face, making his normally languid eyes look exceptionally sharp — like a blade that had just been whetted.
Zhao Wenhuan did not recognize this face, but if the man could move freely within the Sixth Prince's tent, he must be no ordinary person.
As this was crossing his mind, Pei Cijing raised his hands in a salute.
"Lord Zhao. I am Pei Cijing, Compiler at the Hanlin Academy."
Zhao Wenhuan returned the salute. "Lord Pei."
Pei Cijing offered no further pleasantries. Looking straight at Zhao Wenhuan, he asked directly, "Lord Zhao, the former prefect of Yunyang, Chen Qiming, once impeached you for embezzling funds meant for river management. I would like to ask you — did you do it?"
The question was blunt. No preamble. No circumvention. Like a knife, driven straight in.
The air inside the tent seemed to freeze for an instant.
In the corner of the tent, several officials from the Court of Judicial Review turned their gazes toward Zhao Wenhuan, their stares burning like torches. Shen Mingxuan stood among them, arms crossed, brow furrowed slightly, the distrust in his eyes almost undisguised.
Several accompanying civil officials nearby also cast their looks his way.
Though the Sixth Prince sat motionless, those deep, pool-like eyes had not left Zhao Wenhuan since he entered the tent.
The candle flames in the tent flickered, casting everyone's shadows against the canvas walls—layered, overlapping, murky and indistinct, like a tightly woven web.
Zhao Wenhuan stood at the center of that web, bearing the scrutinizing, doubting gazes coming at him from all directions.
He did not flinch.
Nor did he panic.
He merely lowered his eyes slightly, as if sifting through something in his mind, then raised his head, his gaze meeting Pei Cijing's.
"Pei, your honor," he spoke, his voice still hoarse, yet steady as a stone rooted in the earth, "This official did not do it."
Not done is not done.
Zhao Wenhuan said it calmly, so calmly it was like saying "today I had thin porridge for breakfast."
The tent fell silent for a moment.
The judicial officials exchanged glances; someone shook his head slightly, someone let out a faint snort, their expressions clearly saying—which corrupt official would ever admit to being corrupt?
Li Chengyu leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest, once, twice, three times, the faint rhythmic thuds unusually distinct in the silence.
He did not speak, only watched Zhao Wenhuan, as though weighing the truthfulness of those words.
Pei Cijing did not back away either.
He still stood before Zhao Wenhuan, his gaze continuing to meet his.
The candlelight in the tent reflected off those young, bright eyes, casting a faint, deep glow. Pei Cijing did not glance at the Sixth Prince's expression, nor at the judicial officials' reactions.
He was only watching Zhao Wenhuan.
Watching whether this man, standing in a situation of utter isolation—cornered on all sides with a prince's scrutiny, judicial suspicion, and the blunt questioning of a young official he had never met—could still hold his ground.
The kind of person who can hold steady under that kind of pressure is either someone with a clear conscience, utterly unafraid, or someone of profound depth, so deep that even his expression, tone, and gaze can be precisely controlled.
Pei Cijing hoped it was the former.
But that would take time to verify, and more information to substantiate.
He did not remain silent for long.
A moment later.
He took half a step forward.
The step was small, his boot pressing into the felt carpet beneath him with barely a sound, yet with that half step, the distance between him and Zhao Wenhuan closed a little more.
His voice dropped a notch lower than before, his pace slowing, each word squeezed out from the depths of his throat, carrying a heavy, oppressive weight.
"Zhao, your honor, do you know—confession earns leniency, resistance earns severity."
He paused, his gaze locked firmly onto Zhao Wenhuan's face, not letting a single subtle change of expression slip by.
"Every person must be answerable for the words they speak. Zhao, your honor, you have the right to remain silent, but every word you say will be used as evidence in court."
"Speak falsely, and the consequences will be dire!"
These words were not common in the officialdom of the Great Qian Dynasty, yet the underlying message—"I'm giving you a chance; if you don't take it now, there won't be another"—was unmistakable to everyone present.
Shen Mingxuan, hearing his brother-in-law's phrase "confession earns leniency, resistance earns severity," raised his brow slightly. He felt the style of these words didn't quite sound like standard Great Qian official speech, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was off.
In the legal codes of Great Qian, there didn't seem to be a provision that confessing to a crime would reduce the punishment, did there?
Probably not?
Fortunately, that subtle feeling flashed through his mind and was quickly suppressed. His attention returned to Zhao Wenhuan, waiting to see how the man would respond.
The tent was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
The candles burned softly in the corner, occasionally emitting a faint crackle.
Zhao Wenhuan stood there, his gaze never leaving Pei Cijing's.
He did not dodge, did not hesitate, not even blinking. Those deep-set eyes carried something hard to name.
Not anger. Not grievance. Nor that deliberately performed candidness.
It was something deeper, more complex.
Like a man watching another do something he considered utterly meaningless.
Pei Cijing took another half step forward. This time, the distance between him and Zhao Wenhuan was close enough that it no longer resembled proper interrogation protocol.
His voice dropped lower still, so low it was like whispering a secret known only to the two of them.
"Zhao, your honor, if you dare to do it, you must dare to own it." He paused, the meaning in his gaze deepening. "If you refuse to admit it now, things will only get harder from here."
The atmosphere in the tent tightened sharply.
Zhao Wenhuan looked at the young face before him, at those bright, sharp eyes that seemed capable of seeing through a man.
His lips moved slowly, very slowly.
It was not a tremor of fear, not a twitch of anger, and certainly not a fawning smile forced out of guilt to curry favor.
It was a smile tinged with bitterness, with self-mockery, with resignation.
Like a man saying—of course, it had to be this way.
He tilted his head slightly, shifting his gaze from Pei Cijing's face, sweeping over the judicial officials in the tent, over the Sixth Prince sitting silently behind the long table, and finally settling back on Pei Cijing.
"Pei, your honor." He spoke, his voice still hoarse, but beneath that hoarseness pressed something heavy. "Are you trying to nail this matter shut on me?"
The words were blunt.
So blunt that several judicial officials in the tent subtly changed expression.
Zhao Wenhuan showed no sign of stopping. The words he spoke were hard as stone.
"Chen Qiming impeached me for embezzling river conservancy funds." He enunciated each word, biting down hard. "I know—in your eyes, the dead carry more weight. A dead man's words hold more sway than a living man's defense. After all, the man is dead, surely he wouldn't be making false accusations?"
He paused, the bitterness in the curve of his lips deepening.
"But I ask you—where is the evidence?"
The tent fell silent.
So silent you could hear the faint sound of candles burning, the distant chants from beyond the tent, the beat of one's own heart.
"You searched my home. You searched my accounts. You searched my correspondence. What did you find?" Zhao Wenhuan's voice rose a notch, carrying a long-suppressed emotion finally finding its outlet. "Nothing!"
"I never once handled the river works funds. From the moment those silver taels were allocated to the moment they were spent, it was Chen Qiming who managed it all, start to finish. I never even laid eyes on those silver taels—how could I have embezzled them?"
His chest heaved violently, and those deep-set eyes burned with something hard to name.
Zhao Wenhuan drew a deep breath, forcing the surging emotions back down into his chest. He closed his eyes, then opened them again; the light in them had dimmed somewhat, replaced by a profound, weary resignation.
"I know that now that the dike has collapsed and the floodwaters have come, the court needs an explanation." He looked at Pei Cijing, his voice lower than before, yet just as calm—calm as a stagnant pool of water. "And I am the easiest explanation to hand over."
"After all, Chen Qiming is dead. Dead men tell no tales. He said I was corrupt, so corrupt I am. Whether there's evidence or not, whether this case can withstand scrutiny or not."
"I accept my fate, but I will never admit to a crime I didn't commit!"
He straightened his body once more, his spine still ramrod straight, his chin slightly raised, his gaze fixed squarely ahead.
"Your Highness, Lord Pei, lords and gentlemen." His voice was not loud, but every word was crisp and clear. "If you want to investigate, investigate. If you want to interrogate, interrogate. If you want to use torture, use torture."
He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly.
"Let's see which is harder—your methods, or my bones."
The tent fell into a terrifying silence.
A candle flame burned quietly in the corner, casting Zhao Wenhuan's gaunt but upright figure against the tent wall, stretching it long and thin.
Pei Cijing stared at him for a long, long moment.
Then he took a step back.
The step was unhurried, his sole brushing against the felt carpet with a faint rustling sound.
He said nothing, only turned sideways and glanced at the Sixth Prince.
Li Chengyu still leaned against the back of his chair, his face betraying no particular expression, yet his fingers had stopped their tapping, now folded over his abdomen, his brows faintly knit.
No one else in the tent spoke either.
The officials from the Court of Judicial Review exchanged glances. Some shook their heads slightly, some heaved soft sighs, some lowered their heads, lost in their own thoughts.
Shen Mingxuan stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching Zhao Wenhuan's haggard yet stubborn face. His lips moved as if to say something, but in the end, he remained silent.
He had interrogated many criminals and seen many kinds of reactions.
There were those who wailed, those who flatly denied, those who blustered to hide their fear, those who groveled and begged for mercy.
But someone like Zhao Wenhuan—who, pushed to the very edge, neither begged for mercy, nor made excuses, nor wept, but simply stood there, pushing all the pressure back with an air of "let's see what you can do to me"—was something he rarely encountered.
And this man, deep down, truly seemed to have no guilt.
Shen Mingxuan had worked cases for years; he still had that much judgment. A guilty man, under that kind of pressure, would inevitably betray some crack.
His eyes would waver, his tone would turn hollow, his expression would grow unnatural.
But Zhao Wenhuan did none of that.
From start to finish, his gaze was unwavering.
Shen Mingxuan was silent for a long time, and finally let out a quiet sigh in his heart. The theory he had found most plausible seemed increasingly inadequate. This case was growing more complicated by the moment.
Pei Cijing did not look at Zhao Wenhuan again.
He turned around, walked back to stand behind the Sixth Prince, and took his place.
The tent remained silent.
The candle flame flickered in the corner, and the thin, upright shadow on the wall swayed with it—but never fell.
Zhao Wenhuan still stood where he was, his spine perfectly straight, his chin slightly lifted, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
He did not know what awaited him.
Whether it was prison, interrogation, a confession forced by torture, or something else entirely—but he had done nothing in his life to be ashamed of. Whoever came, it would be the same. That was the truth.
