Inside the military tent, candlelight burned brightly.
Li Chengyu sat behind the long desk, a thin booklet spread open before him—its cover made of dark blue coarse cloth, the corners worn and frayed. He kept his head lowered, flipping through page after page, his brows drawing tighter and tighter, his expression growing darker and darker.
With every page he read, his face sank another degree.
Earlier, Pei Cijing had returned from Baiyun Temple. He had not bathed, had not changed clothes, had not rested or eaten—he had come straight to the commander's tent. Without wasting a single word, he had produced two items from his robes and placed them on the desk: a booklet and a porcelain bottle.
After that, he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his wife on the opposite side of the desk.
Quietly, patiently waiting.
The ledger was a transcribed copy; the original was still tucked inside Pei Cijing's robes.
He did not dare hand it over.
First, there was no way to explain where it came from—he could hardly say, "I redeemed a duplicate from the system," could he?
Second, if Xuan Qingzi ever discovered that the item under his pillow had been touched, panic might drive him to destroy the original at Baiyun Temple—and then this transcribed copy in hand would become the only evidence left.
Keeping the original in his possession was like holding a trump card, ready to be played at any moment.
Li Chengyu read.
A full quarter of an hour.
Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan stood quietly, waiting. No urging, no explanation, their breathing so soft it was almost imperceptible. They knew this Sixth Prince needed time to digest the information, and time to make his judgment.
The only sounds in the tent were the faint crackle of candle flames and the soft rustle of turning pages.
Li Chengyu read the final page, closed the booklet.
But he did not raise his head.
He leaned back against the chair, shut his eyes, and let his fingers drum lightly on the armrest—one tap, another, another. The rhythm was unhurried, yet carried a heaviness that weighed on the air.
Pei Cijing watched him without making a sound.
He knew what Li Chengyu was thinking.
The names in that ledger were not limited to Chen Qiming's purchase records alone. From a certain prefect to a certain county magistrate, from a certain military commander to a certain chiliarch, from a certain salt merchant to a certain grain dealer—each entry, item by item, was written out clearly and unmistakably.
Some of these men held senior posts in the Beihe bureaucracy. Others had deep roots in the local regions. Some controlled armies, others controlled grain and money.
They might not all know each other, but they all shared something in common—dealings with Baiyun Temple, connections with Xuan Qingzi, entanglements with Sun Youde.
If every name in that ledger were dragged out.
The scope of the fallout.
Would be enough to shake the entire Beihe officialdom to its foundation.
After a long silence, Li Chengyu opened his eyes. His gaze landed on Pei Cijing's face. In those eyes, dark as deep pools, there was no anger, no shock—only a heavy, weary sort of clarity.
"Pei Compiler," he said, his voice lower than usual. "You've dropped a hot potato right into my lap."
Pei Cijing bowed slightly, his expression carrying just the right amount of humility, but his tone was neither servile nor overbearing: "Your Highness sees clearly. This official was only investigating. Whatever I found, I reported truthfully."
"As for how to handle it—that is for Your Highness to decide."
Li Chengyu looked at that expression—the one that said "I'm just a hired hand"—and the corner of his mouth twitched.
A hot potato?
This wasn't a hot potato. This was a red-hot iron plate. Pick it up and it burns your hands; put it down and you can't bear to let it go.
Every single name on that ledger, plucked out at random, was somebody of weight and status.
If they were just minor figures.
With hard evidence.
They could be arrested and done with.
But these people—from the top to the bottom, from civil to military, from officials to merchants—were a tangled web. Pull one thread and the whole network shudders. If all of Sun Youde's associates were arrested, a quarter of Beihe's officialdom would be emptied out—and the quarter with the highest ranks at that.
With so many administrators gone, if the follow-up arrangements weren't handled properly.
There was no way Beihe wouldn't descend into chaos.
And more than that—right now, they were in the critical thick of disaster relief. The people hadn't been settled, the floodwaters hadn't fully receded, the dikes hadn't been repaired, the plague hadn't passed.
If they stirred up such a commotion at this moment, the corrupt officials certainly wouldn't escape—but what about the innocent common folk?
Who would handle the relief efforts?
Who would organize the grain supply?
Who would soothe the refugees?
These questions—Li Chengyu didn't need to say them; Pei Cijing understood them well enough.
Anti-corruption campaigns.
Were never a one-strike affair.
Evidence in hand, arrest immediately? That was the thinking of a bookworm.
Reality was far more complicated than books, and far crueler. Sometimes, even when you held irrefutable proof, you had to endure, you had to wait, you had to choose the most opportune moment to move.
It wasn't that justice wouldn't be done—it was that the time wasn't right.
If you forced the issue before the moment was right, you'd overturn not just the rice bowls of corrupt officials, but livelihoods of countless innocent citizens.
Li Chengyu was silent for a moment, then tapped the desk twice with his fingers and spoke: "For now, this matter should not be publicized."
He paused, as if weighing his words, or steeling his resolve: "We must not startle the snakes. In fact… we should do something to put these bastards at ease. Let them believe the court hasn't investigated them. Let them believe this case ends with Zhao Wenhuan."
"Only then will they cooperate properly with resettling and aiding the flood victims, only then can the most pressing matters be handled well."
Pei Cijing listened and gave a slight nod.
They were of one mind.
Anti-corruption was one matter; disaster relief was another. Both were important. But the most urgent thing right now was the people still stranded in the water, still packed onto the city walls, still going hungry.
First, save the people. Settle the disaster. Repair the dikes.
Then settle the accounts slowly.
When the time came, catch the ones who needed catching, execute the ones who needed executing. Not one would escape.
"Your Highness speaks with great wisdom." He clasped his hands and bowed. "My wife and I share the same view—relief comes first, investigation follows. Once the people are properly settled, we proceed methodically, one step at a time. That is the sound strategy."
Li Chengyu looked at him, a shade of complexity entering his gaze.
He had just been mentally grumbling that Pei Cijing had thrown a hot potato at him—but now, hearing these words, he had to admit: this fox was not without opinions. He had simply thought the problem through to its core, knew he lacked the authority to make the call, and so had passed the difficult decision to someone who could.
Still, dealing with a clever man.
Was always a pleasure.
No need for lengthy explanations of the tangled reasoning behind every decision. No need to cajole the other party into accepting your judgment. You barely began a sentence, and they already knew where you were going. Before you'd even figured out how to phrase something, they'd already laid out the logic for you.
This kind of unspoken understanding—in officialdom, it was worth more than any gold or jewels.
"Since the two of you also favor the slow approach," Li Chengyu collected his thoughts, his tone growing heavier than before, "then I'll speak plainly. To avoid alarming Sun Youde and his lot, I'm afraid we'll first have to put that Zhao Secretary in an awkward position."
Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan exchanged a glance.
Neither spoke, but in that single look, everything was understood.
Zhao Wenhuan.
This Lord Zhao really couldn't have been more unlucky.
As a deputy official, his superior refused to delegate any real authority—that alone was suffocating enough.
And to make matters worse, that superior was a deranged addict who, by taking his own life, saddled Lord Zhao with a black pot so heavy it could get his entire clan executed nine times over.
But now—
Even though the truth had been uncovered, he couldn't be exonerated right away.
He still had to keep wearing that black pot, keep playing the role of the "corrupt official who embezzled river-works funds," and keep enduring the curses of the common folk who didn't know the truth.
Tsk, tsk!
This poor fellow was having one hell of a rough patch.
But what could be done?
Sometimes, the greater good had to come first. Zhao Wenhuan's vindication could wait until after the disaster relief was done. But the suffering commoners couldn't wait a single day longer.
For the greater good!
For the sake of more people, he'd just have to bear the burden a little while longer.
"This humble official understands." Pei Cijing pulled himself back from his thoughts and clasped his hands toward Li Chengyu. "Only... as for Lord Zhao, I'd ask that those Your Highness sends handle him with a somewhat gentle hand."
Li Chengyu blinked in surprise. "A gentle hand?"
The corner of Pei Cijing's mouth twitched slightly. "When he's escorted back to the capital, he needs to look like a 'criminal.' If Lord Zhao arrives in the capital clean-faced and neatly dressed, who would believe he was being hauled back for trial?"
Li Chengyu understood.
He was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I'll give the orders."
"Then it's settled." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an unshakable finality. "Tomorrow, I'll send men along with the Court of Judicial Review to escort Zhao Wenhuan back to the capital and hand him over for the Emperor to decide."
Pei Cijing nodded and said no more.
The tent fell quiet for a moment. The candle flame danced gently in its holder, casting the three figures' shadows against the tent walls, stretching them long and short by turns.
Li Chengyu leaned back in his chair, his gaze resting on the ledger on the desk. He was silent for a long while before speaking again, his voice lower than before, as if talking to himself or to Pei Cijing: "Once this matter is concluded, I will surely petition the Emperor to commend you both. This journey of yours—it's been a hard one."
Pei Cijing clasped his hands, a modest smile on his face. "Your Highness is too kind. This is simply this humble official's duty—hardly worthy of any praise."
His mouth said all the right pleasantries, but in his mind, he was thinking—
Praise or no praise, that was beside the point. As long as they didn't hand him another hot potato like this one, he'd be more than satisfied.
Shen Ninghuan stood off to the side, catching every bit of her husband's unspoken thoughts. The corner of her lips curled up slightly, but she said nothing to call him out.
...
The next morning, just as the sky was beginning to lighten, the camp buzzed with activity.
Not the usual kind of bustle—but a restless stir laced with tension and thinly veiled menace.
Pei Cijing woke to the noise outside his tent. Rubbing his eyes, he threw on his outer robe and stepped out.
The morning mist was thick, a blanket of white that shrouded the entire camp in a hazy veil. The light from torches bled through the fog like a scattering of murky, bloodshot eyes.
He followed the crowd's gaze and saw Zhao Wenhuan.
Zhao Wenhuan was being led out of the tent where he'd been held.
Overnight—
He looked as if he'd aged ten years.
His official robes were stripped away, replaced by a shabby gray-white prison uniform, marked with several fresh streaks of blood layered over older, dried ones—a sight that chilled the heart.
His hair was disheveled, strands hanging over his forehead, half-hiding his face. But the half that was visible was mottled with bruises, a dried trail of blood at the corner of his mouth, and his left eye swollen almost completely shut.
A heavy wooden cangue was locked around his neck, bending his spine under its weight.
Iron fetters dragged at his feet, the chains scraping against the ground with harsh, grinding sounds. Every step was a struggle.
Staggering with each movement.
He looked like he might collapse at any moment, yet he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, step by step.
By now, a crowd had gathered in the camp.
Soldiers, officials, attendants, and some able-bodied men temporarily drafted from among the refugees—they lined both sides of the path, their stares fixed squarely on Zhao Wenhuan.
Those stares brimmed with revulsion, scorn, rage, and contempt.
"It's him?"
"That's him! The deputy governor of Yunyang, embezzled the money for repairing the river embankment. Turned the levee into a crumbling mess—when the flood came, it all caved in!"
"Pah! A man like this still has the nerve to live?"
"Heard Lord Chen impeached him, and he still denied everything. Lord Chen killed himself to expose the truth!"
"Damn him! He deserves to die!"
The curses rose and fell, growing louder by the moment.
Someone spat on the ground. Someone clenched their fists. Someone else picked up a stone from the dirt and hurled it viciously at Zhao Wenhuan.
The stone struck his shoulder with a dull thud. Zhao Wenhuan's body swayed, his foot stumbled, and he nearly fell. But he caught his balance and kept walking.
No excuses. No looking back. He didn't even glance at those people.
Warring whispers crept in from every direction like a swarm of flies buzzing in his ears. Every word, every syllable, landed loud and clear in Zhao Wenhuan's ears.
He did not raise his head. He did not defend himself. He simply kept his eyes on the muddy road beneath his feet and moved forward, one step at a time.
The chains dragged along the ground with a clatter and scrape.
His back remained straight.
Even chained and staggering, that spine stayed rigid—as if something buried deep in his bones was propping him up, something that refused to bend no matter what.
Zhao Wenhuan finally reached the camp gates.
A prison cart was already waiting there—a wooden cage, thick iron chains, a thin layer of moldy straw spread over the floor, reeking of damp.
Two soldiers opened the cart's door.
They shoved him inside.
The iron door slammed shut, the chains rattled, and a heavy lock fell with a dull clunk. Zhao Wenhuan leaned against the wooden bars of the cage, his gaze passing over the crowd and settling on the distant prefectural city still besieged by floodwaters.
On the city walls, the refugees were still queuing for the boats, a line that coiled along the inner side of the ramparts.
A line with no end in sight.
Some carried children, some helped the elderly along, some hoisted bundles on their backs, some carried nothing at all. He watched those figures, and the emotions in his eyes were as tangled as knotted threads.
Resentment. Grievance. Fury.
But more than all of that—
A profound, bone-tired resignation.
He didn't know if he would survive the journey ahead.
He didn't know if the day of his vindication would ever come.
The escort began to move—cavalry at the front, the prison cart in the middle, infantry bringing up the rear—creeping along the muddy official road in the direction of the capital.
The wagon wheels ground over the wet ground with a dull rumble. Zhao Wenhuan swayed gently with the motion of the cart, the iron chains clinking softly as they went...
