“Bang—”

Wind suddenly rose outside the window, roaring as it struck the window lattice, slamming shut the poorly closed window with a heavy crash. Everyone was startled by the sudden loud noise, but only Feng Zhiwei maintained that appearance of neither hearing nor seeing, staring fixedly at the white-bordered black-edged document in Ning Yi’s hand, her eyeballs as if fixed there, utterly lifeless.

Ning Yi’s hand trembled.

With this tremor, the mourning report moved, and Feng Zhiwei’s eyeballs followed with a sway, as if she’d awakened slightly. Slowly she extended her hand to take the mourning report.

Her outstretched hand’s posture was stiff, like a puppet.

As she reached out, she was also opening her mouth to speak, seemingly saying “Let me see,” but when her mouth opened, not a single word emerged.

When her fingers touched the mourning report, Ning Yi seemed to want to withdraw his hand, but immediately stopped, sighing soundlessly, actively handing the mourning report to her.

Feng Zhiwei lowered her head to tear open the envelope seal. Her hands trembled—it took several attempts before she tore it open.

The light paper fell into her palm, white paper with black characters, merely a few dozen. Feng Zhiwei stared for a full quarter hour, as if reading, yet also as if merely spacing out.

Those words entered her eyes but seemed unable to enter her heart, chaotically black like haze clouds floating and dancing wildly before her eyes, striking wherever they went causing pain, striking wherever they went stirring blood.

“…Inspecting the grasslands… encountered betrayal by trusted guards… perished at the border…”

Clearly every character was comprehensible, yet at this moment combined together they suddenly lost their collective meaning. For a quarter hour, a full quarter hour, Feng Zhiwei failed to understand their meaning.

The Grand Secretaries who had gone to close the windows all returned to their seats. Feng Zhiwei released her hand and the letter fluttered down.

Then with pale complexion, not looking at anyone, she supported herself on the table and slowly stood up.

Ning Yi immediately said: “Grand Secretary Wei, your complexion is poor. Are you unwell? Then return home early to rest.”

Feng Zhiwei nodded as if half-hearing, drifting out like a wandering spirit. Unable to walk two steps, she nearly collided with a pillar. Ning Yi immediately called for attendants outside to help her out.

Walking out the door, the cold wind struck her, and Feng Zhiwei seemed to awaken somewhat. Her snow-white face flushed with a strange red tide, then she immediately pushed away, sending that attendant stumbling. Without a glance, she strode outward. She walked extremely fast, sweeping past like a gust of wind. Officials greeting her couldn’t even see her face clearly, all left half-bowed in their original positions, stunned as they watched her back.

Feng Zhiwei went all the way to outside Yongning Gate, where all the carriages and horses of officials from various regions waiting for Hao Yun Pavilion audiences were parked. The high officials saw Grand Secretary Wei emerge and swarmed forward to pay respects. Feng Zhiwei walked straight through the crowd. Where she passed, though not yet close, everyone involuntarily retreated three steps. They watched as Feng Zhiwei, without a word, extremely quickly boarded her own carriage and left.

The carriage rumbled along. Winter sunlight through the carriage curtain illuminated Feng Zhiwei’s cheek, white beyond human color. She sat upright in the carriage, eyes closed. The carriage swayed slightly, a strand of black hair dampened by cold sweat hanging vividly down her cheek.

“Neigh—” A fine horse gave a long whinny. The carriage jolted—the Wei residence had arrived.

With the carriage’s jolt, Feng Zhiwei’s body tilted forward.

“Wa.”

A mouthful of purple-black congealed blood held until now sprayed onto the purple-bordered gold-edged carriage door curtain!

Winter daylight sank very quickly. Just now everywhere was dim yellow; in a blink it changed to a dark human world.

When Feng Zhiwei opened her eyes, she heard wind sounds wandering outside the window, like someone’s robes flying up as they departed with free and easy footsteps.

Just now, in dreams wandering between yin and yang and life and death, it seemed someone had also come, using fingers as warm as ever to gently stroke her face.

In the dream she seemed to smell faint scents of green grass and sunlight, accompanied by the clarity of snow dust from Huzhuo Snow Mountain. The instant she opened her eyes, all around came leisurely flute sounds. Large expanses of golden mist diffused and opened. A shallow figure drifted and turned, hazily looking back with a smile.

Feng Zhiwei extended her hand, five fingers struggling to grasp in the air, murmuring: “Helian…”

She only grasped lonely empty wind.

Would that everything were but a dream, ultimately shattering into empty void.

She closed her eyes. After a long while, fine streams of water slowly flowed down from her eye corners.

Soundless, endless, seemingly wanting to flow like Helian Zheng’s blood those seven days—directly exhausting everything, flowing until life’s end.

The door sounded faintly. Zong Chen entered carrying medicine. Feng Zhiwei didn’t open her eyes, just letting herself cry, asking him: “Is everything prepared?”

This was her first sentence after receiving the dire news.

No weeping or fury—when nightmare descended, all self-blame and resentment were wasteful.

Only revenge remained.

“Mm.”

Feng Zhiwei sat up, took the medicine bowl and drank it in one gulp, incidentally also taking out several medicinal supplements from her bosom to eat.

From now on, her body wasn’t hers alone. She must live healthier and longer than anyone, at minimum until after revenge.

After drinking the medicine she sat cross-legged on the bed, raven-black long hair cascading down, covering most of her palm-sized pale face. A pair of deep black bottomless ghostly pupils looked increasingly intimidating.

“Already sent people to investigate the truth.” Zong Chen said. “That this matter could be reported to court in this manner without other voices likely means Helian… eliminated the opponents’ mouths.”

Feng Zhiwei closed her eyes.

With the strength of himself and the Seven Hawks alone, on the thousand-mile pursuit road, he left behind all enemies’ lives, using the most resolute decisive method to sever all possibility of secret leaks.

Helian, this is what you traded your life for.

“Xin Ziyan must have had a part.” After a long while she said softly.

That day in the garrison prison, that furious man had said to her: Wei Zhi, don’t be smug—I have ways to deal with you. At the time she thought it merely scholarly temper.

Thinking now, it turned out to be prophetic.

That day when Fat Little Flower died, she had also been shocked by the helplessness of endless revenge, had also considered violating her oath to stop here, only taking the Emperor’s life, not needing to manage their empire’s collapse.

Yet all grudges—only bystanders thought they could easily let go. Those caught in hatred’s situation, none were willing to lightly release. If you retreated, someone would inevitably advance another step, blocking the road ahead, eagerly sharpening their blade.

In deep enmity’s situation, retreating meant being attacked, besieged, invaded into central command.

From today on, she would retreat no more.

“Xin Ziyan alone absolutely lacks this capability.” Zong Chen said flatly.

Feng Zhiwei fell silent.

Indeed, though he had a part, he absolutely couldn’t move with such magnitude—pursuing and killing across thousands of miles relentlessly, forcing the Golden Lion King of a generation to his end.

Who was the true mastermind?

A name came to the tip of her tongue, yet like a massive stone, it lodged in her chest, unable to emerge.

Surveying the realm, those with such ruthlessness and such capability—perhaps many. But having this capability while being her enemy—only that one person.

Feng Zhiwei struggled hard to think of what other enemies she had. Yet she’d always had excellent relations, acting cleanly. Those people she’d dealt with—the Crown Prince, Second Prince, Fifth Prince, the Nanhai Chang family—all possible enemies had been quietly resolved during these years of step-by-step advancement.

Her enemies, from beginning to end, only him alone.

For a full quarter hour her heart’s sea churned. At the very end, near despair, she hoped more than at any moment that she now had many, many enemies, so that the revenge target wouldn’t be so exclusively inevitable.

The room’s silence was like bedrock, pressing so one couldn’t speak. After a very long time, she still said with near difficulty: “I always feel… though Ning Yi opposes me, it wouldn’t reach the point of… so enraging me…”

Zong Chen looked at her quietly, asking: “Then who do you say it is?”

Feng Zhiwei turned her face aside.

“Zhiwei, I thought you would never deceive yourself.” After a long while Zong Chen said flatly.

Feng Zhiwei remained silent for a long while, then smiled miserably.

“Whether this matter was him or not, is it so important?” She rose with her robe, looking at the moonless deep black firmament outside the window. “All those who added blade or sword to Helian, I will never spare. Opposition was already destined, hatred grows deeper and deeper—ultimately it will all be the result of your sword coming and my blade going. No difference.”

Zong Chen fell silent, sighing after a long time.

All around was empty silence, evening wind pressing urgently.

Yet came rapid footsteps in disarray, rushing straight toward this hidden study. Vaguely someone tried to obstruct, with low sobbing sounds.

Feng Zhiwei paused, then heard the Xue Futu subordinate disguised as a steward gently knocking, saying with great difficulty: “Master… Miss Jiarong…”

Jiarong?

Feng Zhiwei’s complexion paled. Jiarong was brought back last time by Helian Zheng who forcibly left her here. At the time she refused to take her, and Jiarong refused to follow her, but Helian Zheng rigidly declared that if she dared secretly return, he would immediately marry her off. Great King Helian kept his word—this single sentence directly frightened Jiarong.

Later she brought this girl back to the Imperial Capital, actually quite troubled about her arrangements. She’d only thought that after time passed and Jiarong’s feelings faded, she’d find a way to find her a good marriage. Who knew that girl, though not crying, no longer saw people, finding herself a room to close the door—actually displaying an appearance of dead ashes, practicing cultivation at home.

Feng Zhiwei sometimes also found it inexplicable. She’d heard Helian Zheng vaguely mention this woman was brought out from Ning Yi’s residence, and had suspected she had special use for Ning Yi. Who knew after Ning Yi brought her out, he just abandoned her like this—from then on neither asking nor inquiring, with no intention of taking charge of her. What medicine was Ning Yi selling in his gourd?

She didn’t know about that day when Ning Yi and Jiarong shared a bed. Helian Zheng was an upright man, always open and aboveboard, disdaining speaking of others behind their backs—the more a rival, the less he spoke.

Now Jiarong losing composure—she must have already received news of Helian Zheng’s death.

“Wei Zhi—” Before that steward finished reporting, with a “bang” the door was crashed open. Jiarong burst in with disheveled hair, her eyeballs turning to see Feng Zhiwei, lunging to grab her shoulders: “Great King, Great King he—”

Her complexion was deathly pale, face full of tears, a head of messy hair chaotically stuck to her face. Through the messy hair she stared with sorrowful eyes, her gaze full of endless pleading and hope.

Pleading that the news just heard was merely a dream, a nightmare.

Feng Zhiwei closed her eyes.

It was her oversight—she should have instructed household members to block the news. Jiarong didn’t leave the residence, so it could be concealed long and enduringly. But now news that Shunyi Great King had perished had already spread throughout the Imperial Capital. Even if she herself deceived her, as long as she left the residence to inquire, she would immediately learn the truth.

Better than letting her leave the residence to inquire and meet trouble outside the residence—here, let that high-hanging blade fall.

“Yes.” Her hand pressed her heart, leaning on the table, word by word: “Helian, is gone.”

Jiarong still grasped her collar, maintaining that posture staring at her. She seemed not to understand those few characters, or suddenly lost hearing and speech. She just stiffened like that, but the pleading and hope in her eyes gradually transformed into endless darkness and despair.

That too was a piece of death-bearing black, like the black tide surging from polar seas—wherever it passed, life lay devastated.

After a long while she released her hand, slowly raising her palm, as if wanting to slap Feng Zhiwei once, to angrily rebuke her for talking nonsense and lying. But as soon as her hand rose, her eyes rolled back and she softly collapsed to the side.

She had fainted.

Feng Zhiwei leaned on the table, head tilted, eyes closed. Moonlight slanted across her profile—her complexion whiter than the moonlight.

Zong Chen soundlessly lifted Jiarong, placing her on the bed to take her pulse. After a long while he said: “Acute pain attacking the heart, nothing serious.”

Suddenly he said “Eh,” his hand about to release instead returning to rest there. After a long while: “Her pulse…”

He was about to say something when Jiarong on the bed suddenly turned over.

Her posture was somewhat eerie—lying on her side, arms extended straight. At first glance, rather than sleeping, it looked like performing some ritual.

This strange posture immediately drew both their gazes.

Then Feng Zhiwei and Zong Chen heard Jiarong begin speaking.

First a passage of strange syllables, seemingly a special language. Then she paused and switched to Han speech.

“…Descendant of the Falling Sun, imperial dynasty’s favored, gaining the realm then overturning the realm, gaining the realm then covering the imperial heir…”

This passage repeated three times, then switched to several more sentences, including one: “…False husband karmic bonds, blood exhausted grass barren…”

Listening, Feng Zhiwei’s expression changed.

False husband… Jiarong and Helian Zheng had once married in Great Yue, becoming husband and wife in name only—wasn’t that precisely a false husband?

And the latter sentence—wasn’t it exactly matching Helian’s final outcome?

Jiarong’s sleep talk—was it having feeling and speaking, or… already foreseeing, only she herself didn’t know?

A passage suddenly rolled through her heart.

“Falling Sun tribe women have innate prophetic ability, able to foresee futures related to themselves or close ones, as if favored by heavenly gods, granted sight of coming days.”

Changxi Year 12, in Ning Yi’s mother consort’s abandoned palace, Ning Yi had said such.

That mother consort of his was the legendary Falling Sun tribe princess favored by heaven’s emperor, descending from heaven under heavy snow and green pines, singing songs no one could understand.

Those strange syllables no one could understand—were they what Jiarong first spoke just now?

“…Descendant of the Falling Sun, successor of the imperial dynasty, gaining the realm then overturning the realm, gaining the realm then covering the imperial heir…”

Ning Yi was a descendant of the Falling Sun tribe.

Though the last sentence Feng Zhiwei still didn’t understand, at minimum, the meaning of the first three sentences was quite clear.

The most critical sentence—gaining the realm, then overturning the realm.

Feng Zhiwei’s hand supporting the table, palm ice-cold. In an instant she seemed to see fate’s iron-blue face, expressionlessly pressing close.

At this moment she suddenly understood much.

Understood why Ning Yi was never favored, why after displaying talent he was increasingly suppressed, why though his abilities clearly exceeded all brothers, he still wasn’t established as Crown Prince.

The old Emperor, aged and powerless yet heartful, watched him gradually control court politics but still guarded that most crucial position without giving it—precisely because of this sentence: “Gaining the realm, overturning the realm.”

He feared giving the throne to Ning Yi would mean being harmed himself. He feared Ning Yi gaining the realm would overturn it. He feared being threatened by this son, losing everything.

She also understood why Ning Yi was determined to gain the throne yet never acted rashly, at many opportune moments actively abandoning—it was because he knew he wasn’t a son his father Emperor trusted. He perhaps at all times dwelt under omnipresent alertness and precaution. He must be countless times more cautious than anyone.

He exhausted his efforts to find Jiarong precisely for her Falling Sun tribe descendant identity, precisely to find this prophecy deeply hidden by the Emperor.

Knowing the prophecy, Jiarong naturally had no more use for him. Absolutely couldn’t keep her nearby to invite suspicion.

Feng Zhiwei understood these connections, but her complexion grew paler and paler. At this moment she touched the Emperor’s deeply hidden unspeakable thoughts, yet still hadn’t figured out—with sons already withered nearly to the end, if he couldn’t establish Ning Yi, then what was Emperor Tiansheng still waiting for?

Chaotic mysteries swept through her mind. She breathed deeply, a resolute thought floating up from her heart’s depths.

Behind her, Zong Chen hadn’t understood what Jiarong said. He wasn’t very clear about the Falling Sun tribe’s strangeness. He was asking: “All Xue Futu members are already gathered. Should they immediately be dispatched to contact Hua Qiong at the Hundred Thousand Mountains?”

“Yes.” Feng Zhiwei’s raised chin was plated with starlight, thin and lonely. “I must also leave. Helian… has perished. Feng Zhiwei as his Great Consort will very easily be recalled by the Emperor. Wei Zhi, temporarily cannot be done. But before leaving, I still need to finally do two things in Wei Zhi’s identity.”

She turned, expression lonely and cold.

Raising two fingers like a blade:

“Remonstrate! Kill!”

Changxi Year 18 year’s end looked like a very ordinary year’s end. Ordinary families prepared ordinary New Year’s meals, ordinary officials busily handled ordinary official business. Everything seemed no different.

Yet above the peaceful earth, an undercurrent surged—like black poisonous blood, soundlessly injecting into the imperial dynasty’s meridians.

December, Shanbei.

A shop owner directed assistants to take down the plaque hanging over the door for over ten years. The round-faced, wealthy-looking old boss received the plaque, somewhat lovingly blowing away the dust on it.

“Boss Lin, what’s this? Closing up business for no reason?” Neighbors crowded to watch the excitement. Seeing this old shop open for over ten years just close like this, their eyes revealed reluctance.

“The well-liked boss cheerfully cupped hands all around: ‘That’s right, that’s right. My nephew in the capital is taking me to retire. These years thanks to everyone’s care—thank you here.

“Boss Lin is so fortunate.” Everyone laughed, enviously watching those particularly capable assistants pack up belongings. A carriage rumbled away. Even after the cart went far, people still clicked their tongues in admiration: “Gone to enjoy fortune…”

December, Henei.

From a grand estate emerged a group of men, in such cold weather still baring their chests, exposing deep and shallow knife scars.

The leader carried a bundle dashingly on his back, striding at the front. A group followed reluctantly. That person suddenly stopped, cheerfully cupping fists and calling loudly: “Brothers, green mountains unchanging and clear waters flowing long—we part here, see you again someday!”

“Second Chief, where are you going? Why won’t you tell your brothers?” The group stared as he resolutely left. Suddenly a youth rushed over, tightly grasping his garment corner.

“Me…” That man turned his head back, smile warm, stroking his head. “I’m going to do beheading life-risking business—can’t tell you. Stay well in the gang. Perhaps later there’ll be chances to meet again.”

“Take me along!” That youth raised his head, suddenly calling loudly.

One voice emerging, the crowd responded.

“Take us along!”

“What’s beheading and risking lives? What day aren’t we licking blood from knife edges?”

“Exactly—these years if not for Second Chief, we’d have long been played to death by those gutter rats from South City Gang. You leave—who’ll protect us later?”

“Following is right—where you go, I go!”

“Let’s go!”

That man stood in the setting sun, looking at this group of brothers who’d shared life and death for over ten years. After a long time, he slowly smiled.

“Good, together!”

Shannan, Shanbei, Longnan, Longxi, Jianghuai…

Throughout Tiansheng’s thirteen circuits, in various provinces and counties, such things were happening. Countless people silently took down shop boards and closed store doors, countless people carried bundles walking out of shops where they’d worked as assistants, countless people cupped hands bidding farewell to steward friends at official residences, countless private secretaries set down writing brushes and freely resigned from their employers.

They walked out different gates, walking toward the same direction—like fine yet persistent rivers, passing through ravines and valleys, flowing toward the same sea.

Eighteen years dormant, once stirred—in the long sky, blade edges swept horizontally. Whose throat were they about to sever?

At this time, the Imperial Capital.

The Tiansheng earth was stirring, yet the capital still sang and danced in peace. On West Capital’s Shenshui Street where official residences gathered, in a delicate compact residence, lanterns decorated and carriages flowed like water, seemingly entertaining guests.

From time to time carriages stopped before the gate. People emerged from carriages beaming with joy, then were enthusiastically received inside by doormen and stewards.

Though the host didn’t personally greet guests, every guest already felt very honored—this was Grand Secretary Wei’s newly built residence. Today the new house was completed, celebrating the move by widely inviting guests.

Wei Zhi was a national high minister, receiving full imperial favor, yet in character low-key and humble, not excessively associating with anyone. This was also the mark of a minister’s discretion and integrity—otherwise the Emperor would inevitably suspect him of forming factions and connections. But not associating didn’t mean others didn’t aspire to his connections. Now that he finally opened his golden mouth to entertain guests, not to mention those who received invitations immediately hurried over—even those without invitations sought connections and routes, eagerly following.

For a time, the not-large residence’s flower hall actually crowded full. All ministries, all bureaus, the Hanlin Academy all had guests. Originally only ten tables opened in the hall, but now they had to temporarily add seating in the courtyard. Still many people had no place to sit, shamelessly squeezing together with acquaintances.

Fortunately Wei residence servants were all very cultured. Though people exceeded expectations by far, they weren’t surprised. All arrangements were orderly. They didn’t say to wait for the host to open the feast, but directly served food and wine in flowing succession.

Then someone was heard laughing: “This one is discourteous, failing to greet you distinguished guests. First I’ll punish myself with three cups—”

With this voice, the hall and courtyard, just now like a hot pot, instantly quieted. Everyone turned their heads to see a white-robed youth holding a cup with a smile approaching.

At that time, plum blossoms throughout the hall bloomed perfectly. Red plums like fire, branches sturdy brown, slanting across blue tiles and powder walls. The youth passing through the flowers seemed somewhat thinner, looking increasingly transcendent. Light clothing and thin furs all snow-colored, even his hair ribbon plain white, a head of raven hair flowing water-like over his shoulders. Among jumping flame-like plum blossoms his divine countenance was like snow. All along he advanced holding a cup with light quick steps. Falling plum blossoms rushed into his sleeves, profusely.

This scene was clear yet brilliant, vivid yet austere. Everyone suddenly held their breath.

Some high officials, after an instant’s stunning beauty came surprise—Grand Secretary Wei actually wore all plain white. Beautiful though beautiful, yet it didn’t accord with propriety.

Some people immediately understood. Youth loves beauty—the Grand Secretary must be no exception. In such private guest-receiving occasions, dressing more casually was nothing much.

Feng Zhiwei smiled and nodded all the way. Her gaze at people was extremely affectionate, her attitude made people feel like spring breezes. Whether invited guests or not, whether high officials or minor ministry clerks, all were treated equally. By the time she completed a circuit, everyone’s eyes carried several parts admiration.

“This brother accompanies with three cups first.” Standing before the steps, she gestured with her hand, freely drinking three cups continuously. Turning the wine cup over, below someone forgot themselves and called out approval. The full hall immediately became lively.

Feng Zhiwei brought Qian Yan and several other Qingming students serving in court down the steps to urge drinking. These Qingming students were all official circles-trained children, speaking and smiling warmly with affectionate attitudes. The atmosphere gradually grew lively. Before long, everyone was half-drunk.

“Some days ago this brother caused some troublesome matters. Thanks to you ministers’ efforts running about and persuading, giving powerful assistance—this brother borrows this opportunity to thank you all together.” At the upper seat, Feng Zhiwei again freely drank a cup.

Everyone knew she referred to the Henei book case from some time ago. Actually that case involved two Grand Secretaries—everyone hadn’t dared say anything. But now the Grand Secretary expressed gratitude—naturally no one revealed it. All repeatedly raised cups saying auspicious words like “Grand Secretary turned misfortune to fortune.”

“Recently I’ve often entered the palace to accompany His Majesty in conversation.” Feng Zhiwei casually turned her wine cup, opening like casual chat.

Everyone listened attentively. Recently His Majesty’s health was unwell. Court sessions changed to once every three days, still often not attended. From within the palace vaguely came news that His Majesty’s old ailments recurred this winter, his body increasingly poor. This news made everyone’s hearts itch like cat scratches, yet they couldn’t obtain more news. Throughout court above and below, only a scant few high ministers could see the Emperor anytime. Grand Secretary Wei was one such. Everyone coming so completely today also had some intention of hearing inside information.

All sides fell silent. Feng Zhiwei leisurely said: “His Majesty chatted with me about matters before Changxi Year 12, saying at that time he needn’t personally handle everything like this. Now the older he gets, the more laborious—his body somewhat can’t bear it.”

Everyone fell silent, momentarily not reacting to the meaning of her sentence. What difference between before Changxi Year 12 and now? Some people thought of it, complexions paling.

Before Changxi Year 12, there was a Crown Prince!

At that time, Emperor Tiansheng, to train the Crown Prince so he’d familiarize with national affairs early, half a year annually was Crown Prince Regent. The Crown Prince with several brothers managed the Six Ministries and domestic affairs large and small. Only major national affairs were personally decided by His Majesty.

His Majesty was finally going to establish a Crown Prince?

Everyone immediately breathed somewhat rapidly, eyes staring straight at Feng Zhiwei. But Feng Zhiwei didn’t speak, casually playing with a jade pot in hand.

Only now did everyone notice her wine pot differed from everyone’s—entire piece of green jade, carved as peony flower form, dragon spine handle, exquisitely unmatched. When light passed through, one could vaguely see the handle bore a raised-carved character: “Chu.”

Chu, Prince Chu’s residence.

This must be a cherished item Prince Chu gifted to Grand Secretary Wei?

Officials were all very sensitive. At this time in this occasion, Grand Secretary Wei raised this topic while intentionally or unintentionally displaying such an item—the meaning it represented immediately plunged countless people into deep thought.

Since His Majesty deeply discussed this topic with Grand Secretary Wei, he must have also hinted at his favored candidate. If it weren’t Prince Chu, Grand Secretary Wei would certainly place all items that could display good relations with Prince Chu high on the shelf, rather than publicly displaying their good friendship like this.

Also true—besides Prince Chu, who else could it be?

Some people looked around, discovering that though dignitaries gathered like clouds, those most flag-bearingly clear Prince Chu camp high officials were precisely absent. Very obviously, Grand Secretary Wei came to advocate for Prince Chu. The rest were avoiding suspicion by staying away, to avoid being attacked for forming factions to seek position.

“Pity Seventh Highness isn’t here. He most loves my residence’s Ancient Moon Clear Snow tea in the past.” Feng Zhiwei said again flatly.

Everyone’s expressions flashed again—His Majesty aged, heir selection imminent. Tenth Highness had ordinary qualifications. The most competitive Seventh Highness still supervised troops in the south—didn’t this indicate His Majesty’s heart’s intention lay only with Prince Chu?

“Open people don’t speak darkly. With you ministers there’s nothing to hide about,” Feng Zhiwei tapped her wine cup. “The nation cannot go one day without ruler and father. Ancestral temple succession is most urgent. In this situation now, as subject ministers, one absolutely cannot remain prudently aloof ignoring national politics. This brother is going to submit a memorial. Even if His Majesty is enraged and charges me with recklessly discussing court politics, I can’t worry about it.”

Everyone lowered heads drinking wine, thinking: you already know whom His Majesty wants to establish as Crown Prince. Submitting a memorial isn’t precisely pleasing His Majesty—where’s the fury? Both welcoming the old master and currying favor with the new master—most likely first merit in establishment, ascending another level, right?

Everyone’s eyeballs rolled round in wine cups. In their hearts they’d already begun drafting petitions requesting establishment of Crown Prince.

Whoever first submitted a memorial requesting Prince Chu be established as Crown Prince could guarantee future decades’ wealth and glory.

The full hall had an instant of silence, then deliberately grew lively again. Gradually some people began taking leave. These people opened the way, then more and more couldn’t sit still, leaving with various reasons.

Feng Zhiwei sat high at the upper seat, smiling as she watched those people leave carrying excited expressions. One could imagine that today, leaving this gate, they would immediately spur horses galloping wildly, racing toward what they thought was lifelong favor.

This was the last thing she did with Wei Zhi’s influence.

Tomorrow, memorials requesting Prince Chu be established as Crown Prince would pile high filling His Majesty’s desk, exchanged for the number one suspicious old Emperor’s full alertness and unease.

Tomorrow many people would be demoted, many investigated, many implicated. Tomorrow the Emperor would be shocked to realize Prince Chu camp’s powerful strength, shocked to realize Prince Chu’s impatient ambition for the throne, shocked to realize someone’s step-by-step pressure before imperial authority. He would finally decide determinedly, fully striking that imagined enemy.

And she would bear the brunt, because advocating and clamoring for Prince Chu’s establishment as Crown Prince, demoted from the capital.

She would go toward that sea-broad sky-vast grass-yellow place, to spill enemies’ fresh blood everywhere.

When she returned again, heaven and earth would be overturned—another her.

Feng Zhiwei smiled faintly, smile distant from her eyes. Clear wine liquid swayed, reflecting her all-plain-white figure. Behind her, the sky was split by slanting plum branches.

Go then.

See today’s cup of wine upon the golden terrace.

Overturn a cup of heroic heart come tomorrow dawn.