The imperial study was so quiet that the sound of a pin dropping could be heard.
The candle flame gave a small flicker in its holder, casting the old emperor's dignified and inscrutable face in shifting light and shadow.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze resting on Li Chengyan's face.
That gaze was not particularly sharp.
One could even call it mild.
But it was precisely that mildness that made the string inside Li Chengyan tighten even further, and his heart gave a lurch.
In that instant, he felt an unprecedented unease, as if something was silently collapsing somewhere he could not see, and he had been completely unaware of it, only now faintly sensing the tremor rumbling up from beneath the earth.
He steeled himself, and when he spoke, his voice was still fairly steady, but beneath that steadiness, a hint of stiffness he himself had not detected was already leaking through: "Your son reports to Your Majesty, everything I did during the disaster relief efforts and every matter I handled has been fully reported, with nothing omitted."
The old emperor looked at him.
Said nothing.
The air in the imperial study seemed pressed down by something heavy, weighing on every heart in the room. The candle burned quietly, occasionally letting out a faint crackle, and that sound cut through the silence all the more sharply.
After a moment, the old emperor spoke again, his voice still calm and level, his tone as plain as if he were asking what dish the imperial kitchen had served that day: "Is there truly nothing else you wish to say?"
Li Chengyan's Adam's apple bobbed.
He understood well enough what that question implied, but what could he say? What should he say?
Those matters—the Baiyun Temple, Sun Youde, the elixirs, the project funds—surely no evidence had been left behind, and hadn't the case of embezzlement already been settled? Zhao Wenhuan was the one who bore the blame.
It could not be about that, could it?
Could it?
He took a deep breath, forcing the surging unease in his chest back down, and answered dryly: "No."
The words came out awkward.
So awkward that even he himself sensed something was off.
A long silence settled over the imperial study.
The old emperor did not ask again.
He simply leaned back in his chair, shifting his gaze from Li Chengyan to the several memorials spread open on the imperial desk, as if looking at something interesting, or perhaps at nothing at all.
The candle flame cast deep shadows across his face, making that dignified countenance all the more unfathomable, too deep to read any emotion from.
Li Chengyu sat to one side, silent the entire time.
His eyes stared straight ahead, his expression composed and unreadable, but inside, he knew with perfect clarity—Li Chengyan was finished this time, completely finished.
Everything done at Baiyun Temple.
All the evidence.
It had long ago been sent back to the capital along with Zhao Wenhuan, delivered to the old emperor's hands via a secret memorial.
That account ledger, those elixirs, all laid before the throne.
Whether those things were genuine or false, whether those records were solid or questionable, the old emperor could not have failed to investigate.
So much time had passed since then; what needed to be verified had been verified, what needed to be authenticated had been authenticated.
Given the old emperor's temperament, he would never have launched this attack in the present moment unless he had reached a definitive conclusion.
And now that the old emperor had spoken, asking Li Chengyan twice, in front of both of them, "Is there anything else you want to say," this was not an interrogation, not coercion—it was giving him a chance.
But whether that chance could be seized depended entirely on Li Chengyan himself.
As the saying goes, there is no third time.
The Emperor was not in the habit of repeating himself three times, nor did he have the patience for it. Two inquiries were already the limit — the first was a warning, the second a final chance. If Li Chengyan still refused to see reason, still stubbornly held his ground without confessing—
Then there would be no need for further confession.
This silence was the last time the Emperor was granting Li Chengyan.
Li Chengyu kept count in his mind.
From the Emperor's second question to this very moment, nearly half an incense stick's worth of time had passed. Throughout that stretch, no one in the imperial study had spoken a word. The only sound was the faint crackle of candle flames.
Long enough.
If Li Chengyan were wise, he would act while the Emperor had yet to hurl the evidence at him, while he still had a shred of dignity left — confess of his own accord, admit his faults, and at the very least secure a lighter punishment.
But Li Chengyan did no such thing.
He sat there, his face stiff, lips pressed tightly together, gaze lowered as if waiting for something, or bracing against something.
Li Chengyu sighed inwardly.
What a "pity." This Li Chengyan — sharp on the outside, but truly blind to the reality before him.
At this point.
Still holding out.
Still fantasizing that he could slip through, that his deeds were flawless, that he, the Eighth Prince, could continue dreaming of the throne.
Ridiculous.
Li Chengyu cast aside those idle thoughts and stopped deliberating.
This long a silence — the Emperor's patience must have run its course.
And sure enough.
The old emperor withdrew his gaze from the memorial before him, straightened up, reached beneath the imperial desk, and pulled out two objects, tossing them casually aside.
The ledger and the porcelain vial of pills landed before Li Chengyan with a dull thud — a sound that was not loud, yet struck like muffled thunder, making Li Chengyan's whole body shudder.
He lowered his head.
Stared at the two items before him.
In that instant, his face turned deathly pale. His hands trembled slightly. He wanted to reach for the account book, but his fingers seemed nailed in place, unable to lift.
The Emperor knew everything?
How could the Emperor know?
Li Chengyan whipped his head around toward Li Chengyu.
Li Chengyu remained as composed as ever — calm in expression, gaze fixed straight ahead, not even glancing at him.
But it was precisely this composure that snapped the last string holding Li Chengyan together.
So that's how it was.
So that's how it was!
All that talk of "offering prayers and fasting on behalf of the Sixth Prince," all that talk of "burning incense for the disaster victims" — all of it was a front. A pretext. Li Chengyu's trip to Baiyun Temple had never been about prayer. It was about finding evidence.
Xuan Qingzi had believed himself so cautious.
Yet he had been investigated to the very bone.
Without even realizing it.
And Li Chengyan had been kept in the dark the whole time, from beginning to end.
The one escorted back in chains was Zhao Wenhuan, and the official word was that Zhao Wenhuan had embezzled public funds — everyone thought the case was closed, thought the blame had been shifted onto that hapless county magistrate.
But now he understood — all of it was a smokescreen.
Put on for his sake.
Put on for Sun Youde's sake.
Put on for Baiyun Temple's sake.
Put on for the sake of every person tangled up in this case.
All so they would let their guard down, believe the storm had passed, and go about their business — keeping the damning records, running the underhanded accounts, meeting the wrong people.
And then—
Taken in one fell sweep.
Li Chengyan's face went from white to gray, from gray to a sickly green. His lips trembled, as if he wanted to speak, but found his throat blocked, unable to produce a single word.
He looked at the ledger before him, then at the porcelain vase, and finally raised his head to meet the old emperor's gaze.
The old emperor leaned back in his chair, his eyes resting on him with something in them—disappointment, disgust, and a weariness that was hard to put into words.
Li Chengyan opened his mouth, wanting to speak, wanting to say, "Father, this isn't my fault," wanting to say, "Father, it was Sun Youde who did it on his own—I knew nothing."
But those words turned over and over in his throat, and in the end, he swallowed them back down.
He couldn't say them.
Because deep down, he knew it didn't matter what he said. His father wouldn't believe him anymore. The evidence was laid out here, the ledger was here, the pills were here—if he still claimed ignorance, who would buy it?
Watching Li Chengyan's face—that look of equal parts stupidity and malice—the old emperor felt nothing but disgust.
That disgust was written almost without reserve across his face, in the slight knit of his brow, in the downturn of his lips, in the look in his eyes that was nearly cold enough to be called frozen.
He had no patience left to listen to excuses, nor any need to.
The evidence was conclusive.
And in all the time since the report had reached him, he hadn't been idle. Even the vacancies left by the arrests in Yunyang, he had already arranged for Shen Zhongcheng, the Minister of Rites, to handle—filling what needed filling, transferring what needed transferring, ensuring no disruption would follow.
Everything had already been set in order.
So the old emperor had no mood left for speeches.
He simply raised a hand.
The guards stationed outside the hall entered at once, moving in perfect unison—clearly they had been given their orders in advance and had been waiting outside all along.
They walked straight to Li Chengyan, and one on each side, clamped iron-like hands onto his shoulders.
Li Chengyan finally snapped out of his shock.
He tried to struggle.
"Father!" His voice rose shrill and nearly cracking, a kind of desperation scraping through it. "Father, Your son—"
He wanted to plead, to explain, to say something that might turn this around. His mind was spinning frantically, searching for a plausible excuse, a way out, a loophole.
But when he raised his head and met the old emperor's eyes—those deep eyes that seemed to see through everything—all his words caught in his throat.
What kind of look was that?
No anger. No disappointment. Even the disgust had faded, leaving behind only a sort of detached calm, like a man staring at something already doomed to be thrown away, not worth a single drop of further emotion.
In that instant, all the strength in Li Chengyan's body drained away.
He stopped struggling.
Like a dead dog, he was dragged out by the guards, the hem of his court robes trailing along the floor with a rustling sound that grew fainter and fainter, until it faded beyond the doors of the imperial study.
The doors closed again.
Inside the study, only the old emperor and Li Chengyu remained—father and son.
Silence returned, but this time it carried a different weight. The silence before had harbored the pressure of an impending storm; now, that pressure receded like a tide, leaving behind only a strange tranquility.
The old emperor looked at Li Chengyu.
This sixth prince—how much more he resembled the emperor's own younger self with every passing day.
The sharpness in his brows and eyes, the set of his lips when they pressed together, even the way he stood—steady yet carrying a hint of cutting edge—all of it seemed cast from the same mold.
Perhaps he was even more composed now than he had been in his youth.
“You did well in this relief effort.” The old emperor spoke, his voice carrying an unusual gentleness—part acknowledgment, part praise.
Li Chengyu was momentarily taken aback.
But he quickly composed himself, offering a respectful bow. “Serving Your Majesty and sharing your burdens is this son’s duty.”
The words were flawlessly measured, his posture impeccably proper.
The old emperor watched him, still so guarded and restrained, and let out a soft chuckle. The laugh was barely audible, echoing briefly in the vast imperial study before fading, yet it carried a rare warmth.
“In the next few days, prepare yourself well.”
With that, the old emperor waved a hand, signaling Li Chengyu to withdraw.
Li Chengyu’s heart stirred.
He understood clearly what those words implied.
Prepare well—prepare for what?
The answer went without saying.
His heartbeat quickened, but his expression remained calm and steady. He merely acknowledged the order respectfully and retreated from the room.
The old emperor leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling.
The ceiling of the imperial study was lofty, adorned with intricately carved beams and exquisite painted patterns. He had stared at them for decades, long accustomed to the sight, yet now those elaborate designs seemed to blur before his eyes.
The position of heir apparent.
So it was settled.
He slowly closed his eyes, running through the matter once more from beginning to end.
Li Chengyan was most likely problematic; the timing of his rescue had been too precise, likely orchestrated by the crown prince on his behalf. But as for why the crown prince had done so, the old emperor had no desire to dig deeper.
After all, the crown prince was already dead.
Just keep a watchful eye; that was enough.
So Li Chengyan had never been a possible successor. The reason he had been given a sliver of hope was to serve as a whetstone—to sharpen Li Chengyu, to let him grow through competition, mature under pressure, and learn the art of imperial rule through strategic maneuvering.
That was the old emperor’s original intent.
A whetstone, nothing more. Ascension to the throne was never in the cards, never even a possibility.
But he had not expected Li Chengyan to be so useless. Worse, the man was a scourge: he had raised funds through the alchemical pills of Baiyun Temple, which in itself might have been tolerated, but he should have known which money could be touched and which could not.
Embezzling from the river conservancy funds?
That was the end of the line. Since he had brought ruin upon himself, it was time to deal with him.
And the position of heir apparent?
With the whetstone gone, there was no reason to delay naming a new crown prince.
Now was the time to let Li Chengyu take on more responsibilities—the affairs of court, the military matters at the borders, and those deeply entrenched webs of power. It was all ready for him to slowly familiarize himself with.
In another two years…
The old emperor’s fingers tapped lightly on the armrest.
Perhaps he should step down.
That thought had lingered in his mind for a long while, like a stone resting at the bottom of a river—normally unseen, but when it surfaced, it struck the heart with a jolt.
Retired emperor?
To be honest, he had never really considered such a thing before.
But after the crown prince’s death, as he handled state affairs day after day, the old emperor could truly feel that he was no longer young. His energy was clearly waning—not something a few prescriptions from Hua Yuan could restore.
It was simply age catching up.
Perhaps, when the right moment came, it would be better to hand over Great Qian to him ahead of time.
But that was a matter for another day.
Shaking off his drifting thoughts, the old emperor lowered his head, picked up his vermilion brush, opened the memorial before him, glanced through it, and began to write.
The traces of cinnabar slowly spread across the paper, like some ancient ritual that had endured for a thousand years—the fall of a dynasty, the beginning of an era.
The imperial study blazed with candlelight, casting the silhouette of the figure seated behind the dragon desk onto the wall, stretching it long and ever longer...
