But after his heartfelt speech, he looked up.

On the other side, Chen Baoxiang had not put on the expression he had imagined she would.

She looked down at him, her gaze almost like she was looking at something filthy — contemptuous, disdainful, scornful.

Cheng Huaili was instantly incensed: “What do you mean by this?”

“The finest theatrical troupe in Shangjing charges five taels a performance.” She said. “This place is better though — no charge, and funnier.”

“Chen Baoxiang!”

“You and I are not alike in the least.” Chen Baoxiang cut him off. “This body’s strength was born from my mother; my abilities were taught by Grandmother Ye. They are the ones who raised me. You had nothing to do with it.”

“You are selfish and cruel, heartless and faithless, driven by nothing but self-interest — a maggot in the gutter. No one would wish for a maggot’s approval, so you needn’t play games with me and take me for some soft-hearted fool easily deceived.”

Some hatred bled through at the edges, but she pressed it back in time.

“Cheng Huaili — what you are most proud of is that you are a man of immense wealth with extensive followers, a man who can be one of the high and mighty in this city of Shangjing. Is that not so?”

“From this moment on, I will make you watch as everything you possess, every last bit of it, leaves you. Nothing will remain.”

Cheng Huaili’s breath seized.

He wanted to refute Chen Baoxiang — he still had connections and wealth in abundance; it would not be so easy to let her have her way. But meeting her eyes, he felt as though a hand had closed around his throat, and he could not push out a single word.

Chen Baoxiang was not threatening him for the sake of it. With the banks sealed, even if he could sell his remaining estates and shops, his current funds would not turn over. He could already foresee what his situation would look like in two months.

But Cheng Huaili still clung to a thread of hope.

Chen Baoxiang claimed to hate him and yet had not come charging over to put a blade through him — did that not mean there was some reluctance in her?

People were governed by emotion, and familial ties especially made one weak. If he said a little more, a few more times — if he could just make her see how important a father was to her — there might still be a way to turn things around.

That’s right. He was Chen Baoxiang’s only remaining kin in this world.

The figure in the wheelchair had a manic quality to his expression. Chen Baoxiang had already lost interest in watching him.

With her keeping him occupied here, Jiuquan should have already made his move.

·

Jiuquan’s hands were quick and his feet were light — not only did he scoop up every letter from the study into a cloth sack, he even lifted the few account books from Cheng Huaili’s hidden compartment along with them.

“That’s a lot,” he said, nearly unable to carry it all.

Chen Baoxiang, waiting for him at the mouth of the alley, took the cloth sack from him with one hand and swung it lightly into the carriage.

Jiuquan stared in awe: “General Chen, your strength really is extraordinary.”

Chen Baoxiang was not in high spirits. She gave a noncommittal reply and mounted her horse to ride back.

She wanted to seek justice for Grandmother Ye and for those refugees who had died at the frontier — to see Cheng Huaili bear every crime that was his to carry, without a single one missed, before he died.

She only hoped that what was in his study would be enough. If it wasn’t, she would have to come back again.

Chen Baoxiang was patient enough for that. She no longer feared Cheng Huaili; she could face him any number of times without it meaning anything.

It was simply that she found him thoroughly disgusting — listening to him was disgusting, looking at his face was disgusting; even one encounter was enough to leave her irritated for a long while afterward.

Why was it that people could not choose their own birth.

After seeing to it that Jiuquan delivered the evidence to the Imperial Censorate, Chen Baoxiang returned to her own marquis manor, expression cold.

She pushed the door open. Inside, a lamp was burning.

“You’re finally back.” Zhang Zhixu turned to look at her, his expression thoroughly aggrieved. “He yelled at me again.”

Chen Baoxiang walked in with an amused look: “Who?”

“Who else — my father, of course.” Zhang Zhixu pulled her over and sat her down beside him, genuinely at a loss. “Half the court’s officials have their eyes on me unfavorably; the other half follow along and won’t deal with me either. Is that my fault? Isn’t it their culture that’s lacking? And his own father, rather than standing up for me — he’s telling me to stay away from the old family residence for a while.”

The salt and iron administration matter had caused an uproar, and Zhang Zhixu as its instigator naturally bore the brunt of it first. He had been prepared for that — but the current state of affairs clearly did not fit the Zhang family’s expectations for him.

“In the past I would have heard him out and let it go.” He grumbled. “But I’ve discovered I’m not happy about it.”

Chen Baoxiang had told him to let himself be happy more often.

Zhang Zhixu had deliberated for a long time before breaking through his own habits and reasoning with Zhang Yuanchu.

“He couldn’t argue against me, so he started scolding — said that at my age he was exceptionally steady and mature, that he would never have acted so rashly on impulse, and that if I had grown up the way he taught me, I’d probably have my name in the annals of history by now.”

Zhang Zhixu was entirely unconvinced. “He can’t get his own name into the annals of history, so he feels regret, and he’s transferred all his hopes onto me.”

“But I am myself. I am not some continuation of him.”

Chen Baoxiang was caught off guard and paused.

She tilted her head hesitantly: “Aren’t children… a continuation of their parents?”

“Of course not.” Zhang Zhixu looked at her as if this were obvious. “You are you, I am me, they are them. Even if the features resemble and the habits are influenced, the way we live is what we ourselves choose.”

“It’s not as though just because I have something of his look about me, I have to spend my whole life living under his shadow.”

He talked on in a rambling sort of way, then reached out the hand he had been warming and pressed it gently against her somewhat cold cheek.

Chen Baoxiang felt a strange, drifting sort of feeling come over her.

That’s right — she was born the way she was. Even if she resembled someone, she was still herself. What right did someone who had not raised her for a single day have to make her live in their shadow?

What was there to be troubled by? As if a person could be defined by a maggot.

The crease between her brows gradually eased. The brightness returned to Chen Baoxiang’s eyes.

“You look a little unhappy too.” He bent his head to study her. “Were you also yelled at?”

“No — not only was I not, I gave someone else a thorough dressing-down.” She lifted her face and grinned. “It was satisfying.”

Zhang Zhixu looked at her expression and quietly breathed a sigh of relief.

“I need to stay at your place for a while.” He said. “My own house isn’t safe to go back to.”

“Easy.” Chen Baoxiang held out her hand. “That’ll be ten taels.”

Zhang Zhixu truly placed something in her palm.

Not a banknote. A dossier.

“What is this?”

“Evidence related to Cheng Huaili’s massacre of innocent civilians and the slaughter of frontier refugees.” He looked at her. “Guess who gave it to me?”

“Xie Lanting?”

Zhang Zhixu shook his head: “Nanzhou. Song Jüqing.”