Silence fell over the tent for a long time.
Zhao Wenhuan stood there, his spine ramrod straight, chin slightly raised, gaze fixed straight ahead—like a bamboo stalk bent by a fierce wind yet never snapped.
After delivering his speech, he said no more.
His lips were pressed firmly together.
The line of his jaw was set in a stubborn arc.
His whole posture was a living declaration of “I bare my blade and laugh at the sky, ready to leave my liver and gall to the Kunlun Mountains”—the resolute pose of a man who would not bow to dark forces and wished to leave his name unsullied in the world.
The officials from the Court of Judicial Review exchanged uneasy glances.
The candle flames in the tent flickered, letting out faint crackling sounds.
No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes, whether overtly or covertly, drifted in the same direction—toward the tall, dark-robed figure seated behind the long table.
The Sixth Prince, Li Chengyu, leaned back in his chair.
His hands were folded loosely over his abdomen.
His face betrayed nothing.
While Pei Cijing had conducted the interrogation, Li Chengyu's gaze had also rested on Zhao Wenhuan, scrutinizing him steadily. But he had not rushed to render his own judgment—whether this man was good or bad, he wanted to hear someone else's opinion first.
Li Chengyu turned his head slightly.
Looking at the captain of the guard standing by the tent entrance, he said in a flat tone: “Take Zhao Wenhuan away. Confine him separately. Without my order, no one is to approach him.”
The captain saluted with clasped fists in acknowledgment.
With a wave of his hand.
Two soldiers stepped forward.
Zhao Wenhuan did not resist, nor did he speak another word, though inwardly he was somewhat surprised—shouldn't torture be coming next?
He had been prepared for it!
But to avoid physical suffering was, in itself, a small blessing. Zhao Wenhuan glanced at the Sixth Prince, then at Pei Cijing, before turning around and following the two soldiers out of the main tent.
His back remained straight, his steps steady, without a trace of hesitation.
The tent curtain fell.
Sealing off that stubborn figure from sight.
The air inside seemed to loosen by a fraction, yet it still pressed heavily on everyone's hearts.
The officials from the Court of Judicial Review exchanged low murmurs, their voices hushed to the point of being unintelligible, but from their grave expressions, they were likely discussing Zhao Wenhuan's speech from moments ago.
Li Chengyu raised a hand and gave a light wave.
“You may withdraw as well.”
The officials bowed in unison and filed out one by one, the tent curtain rising and falling, rising and falling, as a succession of silhouettes disappeared into the hazy dusk beyond.
Footsteps gradually faded.
Only three people remained inside the tent—Li Chengyu, Pei Cijing, and Shen Mingxuan.
Li Chengyu turned slightly toward the screen, his tone a shade gentler than when he had addressed Zhao Wenhuan, carrying a fitting measure of courtesy: “Miss Shen, please come out.”
The screen quivered faintly.
Shen Ninghuan stepped out from behind it.
She wore a plain pale-green jacket, her hair simply coiled, with no excess ornamentation about her—she was as clean and unadorned as an orchid just lifted from water.
But her eyes.
They were so bright they seemed to hold an entire river of stars.
She walked up to Li Chengyu, folded her hands, and offered a proper, measured bow, unhurried and poised: “This humble woman greets Your Highness.”
“Miss Shen need not stand on ceremony.” Li Chengyu raised a hand, gesturing for her to rise.
Shen Ninghuan straightened up and stepped to stand beside Pei Cijing. Husband and wife stood shoulder to shoulder—one composed and easy, the other gentle and graceful, like a pair of jade beauties stepping out of a painting.
Li Chengyu watched them, his gaze pausing on the two of them for a brief moment before looking away.
He did not mince words and asked directly, "Miss Shen, you heard everything from behind the curtain just now. Those words Zhao Wenhuan spoke—what is your view on them?"
Shen Ninghuan did not answer at once.
She lowered her eyes slightly.
As if organizing her thoughts.
Inside the tent, there was silence for the space of two or three breaths. The candlelight cast a faint shadow across her face, softening her delicate features into something calm and composed.
Then she raised her head, meeting Li Chengyu's gaze. Her voice was not loud, but every word was resolute.
"Your Highness, Zhao Wenhuan did not lie."
The words were delivered without an ounce of ambiguity, leaving no room for doubt.
Li Chengyu raised an eyebrow slightly. Shen Ninghuan had been recommended by his mother the Empress, and he had gone through no small trouble to bring her and Pei Cijing here together—it certainly wasn't just to have her stand around and look pretty.
Naturally, he wanted to hear what she thought.
What surprised him, however, was the sheer certainty in Shen Ninghuan's tone. Why was she so sure? He could not fathom it.
A hint of curiosity seeped into Li Chengyu's voice as he asked, "Miss Shen, why are you so confident?"
Shen Ninghuan paused for a moment in thought.
Of course she was confident.
But she could hardly tell anyone that she had awakened the power of "mind-reading," able to hear the true thoughts of everyone within ten paces. Saying something like that aloud would either get her branded a charlatan spreading wild rumors, or make her an object of suspicion and wariness. Neither outcome was any good.
She needed a believable explanation.
Something that held water, held its ground, and withstood scrutiny.
Just as she was rapidly piecing together the right words in her mind, a lazy voice beside her cut in first: "Your Highness, have you ever heard of the theory of 'micro-expressions'?"
Pei Cijing stepped half a pace forward, turning slightly so that he shielded half of his wife's figure with his own, a habitual lazy smile on his face. But his eyes were a little brighter than usual.
Li Chengyu was momentarily caught off guard and quietly repeated the term: "Micro-expressions?"
"Exactly." Pei Cijing nodded and began speaking at a leisurely pace, his tone like he was sharing an amusing story with an old friend. "The inner heart of a man hides within the seven emotions and lies buried beneath guarded layers, yet when the mind stirs ever so slightly, it must show on the face—falling upon the brows and eyes, revealing itself in the contours of the skin. This is human nature, impossible to conceal, and no amount of willpower can fully mask it."
He paused, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, his cadence unhurried, as if reciting a passage memorized long ago: "In a man's joy, anger, sorrow, fear, shock, suspicion, hatred, and love—no matter how he tries to rein in his expression and compose himself, the moment a single thought rises within his heart, a faint flicker must pass across the muscles of his face, the corners of his brows and eyes, the lips and the features around them, appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye."
"I, your humble official, call this—micro-expressions."
The tent fell silent for a moment.
Li Chengyu leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers twice on the armrest. His gaze traveled over Pei Cijing's face, then shifted to Shen Ninghuan standing behind him.
Micro-expressions.
He had never heard the term before.
But Pei Cijing's explanation just now was clear enough.
The gist of it was this: no matter how a person tries to hide their inner thoughts, a tiny crack will always show on their face—most people simply lack the eyes to see it.
Yet some people are born with an unusually sharp sensitivity to these subtle shifts.
“So Madam Shen can read the micro-expressions of others?” Li Chengyu asked.
Pei Cijing glanced back at his wife, the corners of his mouth lifting in a curve that carried a hint of pride, a touch of tenderness, and something else—an indefinable smugness.
“My wife has an extraordinary instinct in this regard,” he said, turning back to Li Chengyu, his tone growing more serious. “Your Highness may not know this, but when my wife manages the household, she can tell at a glance whether the servants below are lying.”
“The ledgers of the second branch, the stewards of the estates, the household staff—no one dares to play tricks in front of her.”
“It’s not because she’s harsh, but because she’s too accurate. If anyone tells a lie, she says nothing at the time, but within a few days, she will have uncovered the person’s true background completely. After a few such incidents, everyone in the household knows: in her presence, no lies can be told.”
Pei Cijing paused here, and the smile at the corner of his mouth deepened once more, carrying that unmistakable air of “my wife is simply amazing” bragging.
All of this he had observed himself.
Perhaps this place didn’t have a systematic study called “micro-expressions,” but Pei Cijing was certain that his wife possessed an exceptional gift in this area.
If she were in his previous life—
She’d clearly be a special talent for public security!
Shen Ninghuan had originally meant to offer a self-made explanation, but she hadn’t expected her husband to conjure up an entire “micro-expression” theory out of thin air, which made her eyes light up.
This theory—perhaps she really could piece it together by combining it with her mind-reading ability.
Write a book, establish a school of thought!
But that was a matter for later. For now, she should follow her husband’s lead and continue the conversation.
She lifted her head, looked at Li Chengyu, and her tone remained as gentle and composed as ever: “Your Highness, when Zhao Wenhuan stood under the scrutiny and suspicion of all those around him in plain sight, his expression did not waver, his gaze did not drift, his voice did not falter—he never betrayed the slightest hint of guilt, even at the very end.”
She paused, as if recalling every subtle change in Zhao Wenhuan’s expression back in the tent, then continued: “A guilty man, under that kind of pressure, would inevitably show some crack. But he didn’t. From start to finish, his gaze stayed straight.”
“So I am certain that he was not lying.”
Li Chengyu leaned back against his chair, and the look on his face gradually shifted—from scrutiny to dawning understanding, then from that realization to a sense of wonderment, a “so that’s how it is” kind of awe.
Micro-expressions.
So this was a discipline of its own.
He recalled that night at the palace banquet, when Shen Ninghuan had identified the traitor without any interrogation, and his mother, the Empress, had said she did it “merely by observing their expressions.” At the time, he’d been skeptical, thinking it might have been chance, perhaps just luck.
But now, hearing this explanation, he realized that it wasn’t luck at all. This was clearly a systematic art of reading people—only, Great Qian seemed to lack any formal theory for it.
No wonder his mother valued Shen Ninghuan so highly.
A talent like this, even placed in the imperial court, even among the seasoned veterans of the Ministry of Justice or the Court of Judicial Review who had spent years investigating cases, would be a rare and first-rate asset. To confine her to the inner quarters of a household—that truly was a waste.
"No wonder." Li Chengyu murmured, his gaze shifting from Shen Ninghuan to the curtain that swayed slightly in the wind. "No wonder Miss Shen was able to see through the rebel spy on the night of the palace banquet. I suppose you read it from their expressions as well?"
Shen Ninghuan gave a slight nod, offering no further words.
A silent confirmation.
Shen Mingxuan stood off to the side as Li Chengyu marveled, but he himself had already drifted into a daze, frozen in place as if some invisible force had seized him.
Micro-expressions.
That term was just as new to him as it was to Li Chengyu.
When he and his colleagues at the Court of Judicial Review interrogated cases, they too would observe a prisoner's face, knowing that the phrase "a guilty conscience betrays itself" often came in handy.
But that kind of observation was always a gamble—if you got lucky with a coward who panicked at the slightest threat, you'd spot the cracks. But against a wily old fox with nerves of steel, you were left to brute-force your way through with evidence and confessions. Yet just now, the cooperation between his younger sister and brother-in-law had shown him a different possibility.
Not only could one reach a precise verdict, but the judgment almost never missed the mark. If he could learn his sister's ability to read people, or if even a few men at the Court mastered such a method, they'd be unstoppable!
A flood of thoughts surged through Shen Mingxuan's mind, though he was never one for smooth talk. Glancing at his sister and brother-in-law standing shoulder to shoulder not far away, he fell silent for a long moment before nodding slowly to himself.
His gaze was deep, carrying an unspoken sense of—
Relief.
He had always known his sister was clever, from childhood, but he'd known her as someone skilled in governance, household management, and reading people. He hadn't realized just how far that skill went, nor that the principles behind her talents were based on a systematic doctrine that even the Great Qian Empire had never seen.
And his brother-in-law not only understood it, but had distilled it into a full-fledged theory. In official circles of the Great Qian, plenty of men appreciated their wives, but few understood them to that depth.
Shen Mingxuan was about to speak when his thoughts turned, and he tucked the sentiment back down. Resuming the cool rationality of a judge, he cupped his hands and turned to Shen Ninghuan. "What my sister says makes sense. But there's still one thing I don't understand."
He stepped forward, brows furrowed, genuine confusion threading his voice: "Since you're certain Zhao Wenhuan never embezzled, then was Chen Qiming's impeachment before his death a deliberate frame-up? But if it was, what would he gain from framing a man of lower rank than himself?"
"And more than that—he paid with his own life. Suicide. A sealed room. A written accusation. If all of that was only to drag down a deputy prefect, the cost seems far too steep, doesn't it?"
The tent fell quiet.
That question hit the nail on the head.
Shen Ninghuan lowered her eyes, fingertips softly rubbing together within her sleeve.
Had Chen Qiming still been alive, she need only stand before him, listen to his heart, and she'd know exactly what he was scheming.
But the man was already dead, the coffin lid nailed shut!
Even if they dug up the body—
She wouldn't be able to read his mind.
She raised her head to look at her elder brother, her tone carrying an honest trace of helplessness: "Brother, I can't give you an answer on this one either. Chen Qiming is dead. What he was really thinking, none of us will ever know."
She paused, then turned her gaze to Li Chengyu. "However, since we've already confirmed that Zhao Wenhuan is innocent, perhaps we could ask him whether Chen Qiming showed any signs of abnormality before his death. After all, he was the deputy prefect and worked alongside Chen Qiming for years—he should know things that others don't."
"To clear himself of suspicion, he'll tell us everything he knows without holding back."
Li Chengyu nodded slightly at this. The suggestion was reasonable, and at the moment, there really was no better starting point.
He was about to speak.
Then something suddenly occurred to him.
Before they had set out, the way Old Eight, Li Chengyan, had looked so distracted—that wasn't the heaviness of someone worried about the disaster, but the absent-mindedness of a man with something weighing on his mind while his thoughts were elsewhere.
And the way he had hurried off to the Shuiyun Palace to see Consort Sun.
Consort Sun.
Sun Youde, the Provincial Adminiion Commissioner of Beihe.
Sun Youde was Li Chengyan's nominal maternal grandfather.
And the supervision of the river levee repairs—that fell precisely under the Beihe Provincial Administration Commission. Li Chengyu's gaze darkened, and he tapped his finger heavily against the armrest, producing a dull "thud."
"This matter—" he began, his voice so low that only the few people inside the tent could hear, "may be connected to Sun Youde, the Provincial Administration Commissioner of Beihe."
Shen Mingxuan's expression shifted slightly.
Pei Cijing's eyebrow arched as well.
Shen Ninghuan's eyes flickered, but she said nothing.
Li Chengyu's gaze swept across the three of them, and his tone grew heavier: "When you investigate, you can look for clues in that direction. But—be discreet above all. Do not draw attention."
The tent fell silent.
A candle flame burned quietly in the corner, casting the shadows of the four figures against the tent walls, overlapping one another like tangled thoughts.
Pei Cijing glanced at his wife beside him, then at the grim-faced Li Chengyu, and sighed inwardly. This Old Six—though he was indeed a bit of a schemer—if he was saying something like this, he likely wasn't speaking idly.
He must have some theories of his own.
This case.
It really wasn't that simple.
First the prefect commits suicide, then the deputy prefect is falsely accused, and now it's dragging in the Provincial Administration Commissioner—and on top of that, the Eighth Prince's maternal family. This water ran far deeper than he had anticipated.
He reached out.
Quietly, he took his wife's hand.
His palm pressed against the back of her hand, warm and firm.
Shen Ninghuan didn't pull away. She merely turned her head slightly and glanced at him, and in the candlelight, the couple's eyes met—no words exchanged, yet it felt as if everything had been said.
Shen Mingxuan stood to the side.
He took in the small gesture between his younger sister and her husband.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he made no sound.
