Ming Huazhang looked at Han Jie. The other man wore a composed smile, his expression open and sincere, as though he truly sought nothing but to relieve the court of its burdens.

Yet both of them understood that they each served a different master, and that sooner or later, blades would be drawn between them. Ming Huazhang felt an inexplicable certainty: that day was not far off.

Deep within, he still felt gratitude toward the senior official who had once guided him into the fold and helped him grow — and so he had no wish to offer hollow pleasantries. He asked evenly: “Where are they?”

“Resting at the base.” Han Jie smiled. “Don’t worry — it was only a routine inquiry. After all, I personally discovered those promising prospects. No matter how ruthless I may be, I would never lay a hand on them. Go on out. They should be just about done. Next time something like this happens, report to the Xuan Xiaowei first — don’t charge headfirst into everything on your own.”

Ming Huazhang asked: “And Liao Yushan?”

Han Jie raised an eyebrow, his gaze carrying a deep, unreadable meaning. “Handled according to the rules, naturally. As for what comes after — that is not your concern.”

Ming Huazhang fell silent. That much was inevitable. No one in the world could commit regicide and still walk away alive — to say nothing of the fact that Liao Yushan was a defector from within the secret guards. Ming Huazhang was quiet for a moment, then said: “I would like to see him once.”

Han Jie said: “That is not within the rules.”

“This would be the last time.” Ming Huazhang looked at him steadily and said, “We worked together, after all. I would like to see him off.”

Han Jie held Ming Huazhang’s gaze. They seemed to be speaking of Liao Yushan, and yet seemed to be speaking of something else entirely. In the end, Han Jie gave a faint smile and said: “You really are too sentimental. That is not a virtue, you know. Very well — I will open a back door for you one more time. No more than a quarter of an hour, and mind what you say. Don’t leave any handles for others to grab.”

“Thank you.” Ming Huazhang said no more, and without a moment’s hesitation turned and descended the steps. Han Jie stood on the raised platform and watched him pass through the white marble stairs, walk into the blazing, luminous sunlight, and gradually disappear into the distance.

Han Jie let out an almost imperceptible sigh. He rotated his neck, clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled with his usual careless ease down a different path.

One who spends his days hunting geese may yet find a goose has pecked out his eye. Ming Huazhang had been someone Han Jie discovered and recommended into the Xuan Xiaowei; Xie Jichuan, Ming Huashang, and the others had also entered Han Jie’s field of view as a result. But Han Jie had never imagined that the one person he had chosen in all these years as his successor had, of all possibilities, aligned himself with “traitors and rebels.”

In the beginning, Han Jie had not suspected Ming Huazhang. He had kept his customary watch over Princess Taiping and discovered that she was investigating the case of Crown Prince Zhanghuai’s rebellion seventeen years prior.

Whatever Princess Taiping did within the Xuan Xiaowei was known to them — yet the Empress had not pressed the matter. Instead, she had gone along with the current, allowing Princess Taiping to control a portion of the organization’s personnel in order to monitor every move the Li family made. Had it not been for this, Han Jie would never have learned that Lady Zhang had not given birth prematurely all those years ago — rather, she had taken a drug to induce labor, delivering a male infant ahead of time. Under Crown Prince Zhanghuai’s arrangement, the child had been spirited out of the Eastern Palace and sent to the outside world. And the only people who had entered and exited the Eastern Palace that day were Duke Zhenguo Ming Huaiyuān and the head of the Xie family, Xie Shen.

It was the first time Han Jie had cast a suspicious eye upon the most gifted of his protégés.

Once suspicion takes root, every stray thread and clue begins to surface. The banquets of Princess Taiping — which Han Jie would ordinarily have paid no heed to — became corroborating evidence, and her private meeting with Ming Huazhang all but sealed the matter.

Ming Huazhang was Crown Prince Zhanghuai’s son. For all these years, this vassal had been working openly in one direction while secretly pursuing another — right beneath the Empress’s eyes — and the number of those involved was unknown. The Li family had discovered it. Yet they showed no apparent intention of reporting it to the Empress.

When the Empress questioned Han Jie about the recent movements of the Li and Wu families, he hesitated for a moment — and then disclosed what he had found.

This was his duty; it had nothing to do with right or wrong. From the day he had joined the Xuan Xiaowei, he had been destined to keep company with darkness for the rest of his life. Position mattered more than morality.

As for whether the Empress’s beating of Li Chonglun to death had any connection to this matter — that was not Han Jie’s place to ask.

Detecting Liao Yushan had, in the end, been equally simple. Once Han Jie realized that Ming Huazhang might be Crown Prince Zhanghuai’s son, he watched the young man’s every move with close attention — and naturally noticed the Twin Jades passing false information. He made inquiries and found that Zheng Hui’s conduct and Liao Yushan’s conduct had, on several occasions, been irregular and without apparent reason. Digging further, he concluded that the two men had likely changed allegiances.

Since he knew that Liao Yushan could no longer be trusted, the man’s every action became transparent. When Liao Yushan came to report that the case had been solved and repeatedly insisted that the capital was now safe, the Empress — a master at reading the hearts of men — played along as though accepting his guidance, continuing to make merry outings, even advancing the date by one day.

This was the Empress’s deliberate design. She had intentionally disrupted Liao Yushan’s arrangements — first, for her own safety; second, to observe others’ reactions.

When Princess Taiping came to examine the list of names authorized to leave the palace via the Controlling Crane Commission, Liao Yushan — at the Empress’s instruction — made sure Princess Taiping obtained the list of her own accord. The following day, a body double departed the palace while the Empress remained within, waiting for the outcome of this grand gamble.

Regrettably, even at the very last moment, Prince Wei failed to detect Liao Yushan’s handiwork, and followed his manipulation step by step — foolish, with his usual unwavering consistency.

The Empress believed Prince Wei to be absolutely loyal, without a single disloyal thought. But what use was a loyalty so foolish it could bring ruin upon an entire dynasty?

Fortunately, not everyone at court was a fool. There were still those capable of detecting something wrong — though the ones who found it turned out to be Ming Huazhang and Ming Huashang.

One was a traitor with damning evidence against him, a rebel in the opposing camp; the other was a young woman no one had ever taken seriously — a supposed good-for-nothing.

Han Jie and the Empress alike were astonished. The Empress especially so. She had already anticipated that her children and grandchildren despised her to the bone while being compelled to flatter her — that given the slightest opportunity, they would be delighted to see her dead. And yet, the very person she had deemed impossible — someone she could not have imagined — had traveled a thousand li and come to save her with no regard for her own life.

And when the Empress summoned Ming Huazhang, that young man had expressed a fierce, undisguised dissatisfaction and resentment — had stood before the Empress and denounced her for being no worthy ruler, for muddleheaded abuse of power, for being unworthy of the name of mother.

Whether the denunciation was fair or not, Han Jie did not dare to comment. But he felt the Empress had, in truth, been rather pleased to witness it.

Blood, in the end, runs thicker than water. There was still someone who loved her, hated her, and contended with her — not because she was the Empress, but as a person.

Light and justice still had those who upheld them — whether mighty or humble, human wisdom and courage had never truly perished.

Perhaps he had stood too long in the dark. Han Jie found even that pure, unwavering light dazzling to the eyes. He could no longer speak such words, no longer do such things — and yet he felt, from the bottom of his heart, that it was good. This world was broken and battered; there would always be those brave enough to step forward and mend it, stitch by stitch. He foresaw that his own end would be no good end — yet he genuinely hoped that Ming Huazhang would not become the next version of him.

After the inspector had asked his questions, he politely requested that Ming Huashang take her leave. From this, Ming Huashang understood that she must have rendered a service of some kind, and that securing a comfortable old age posed no problem for her.

She was immediately put at ease. She did not leave at once, but instead asked about Ming Huazhang.

The inspector said: “They are not yet finished on that side. If Madam is pressed for time, I can go and hurry them along?”

Ming Huashang had never imagined a day would come when she would be addressed as “Madam.” She said: “It is all right. I will wait here for a while. Please see to your own duties — you need not attend to me.”

The inspector said a few polite words and withdrew. Ming Huashang waited in the room. Before long there was a knock at the door, and Ming Huashang instinctively called out: “No need to trouble yourself, I can manage on my own—”

She looked up toward the visitor and froze momentarily. The person was slender and upright, with a face as clear and pale as snow and ice. He stood in the doorway wearing a mild, gentle smile: “Did I disturb you?”

Ming Huashang let out a breath of relief and instinctively walked toward him: “Of course not. Second Elder Brother, what did they ask you about? Why did it take so long?”

Ming Huazhang did not mention that he had gone into the palace to see the Empress. He said lightly: “Some meaningless questions, nothing more. Why are you still here?”

“Waiting to go home with you, of course.” The words were out of Ming Huashang’s mouth before she thought about their respective stations. She quickly tried to walk it back: “I was worried they might give you a hard time, so I thought I would stay and wait.”

Ming Huazhang looked at her hand — which had reached toward him but then abruptly drawn back — and took the initiative to bend down and grasp it, saying: “Thank you, Shang Shang. But I still have someone I need to see. Would you wait here a while longer for me?”

He did not tell her to go on ahead. It was the first time he had asked her to wait for him. Ming Huashang was so startled she lost her head entirely, and without thinking said: “I will come with you.”

Only after she had spoken did she realize she had overstepped. She was about to laugh it off when Ming Huazhang had already taken her hand as a matter of course and was leading her out: “All right.”

Ming Huashang stumbled in her steps and went staggering after him. She felt her fever coming on again — her head was foggy, and she could barely walk in a straight line. She struggled with herself for a moment, then in the end could not contain her curiosity: “Who are you going to see?”

“Liao Yushan.”

Hearing that name, the smile faded slightly from Ming Huashang’s face. Ming Huazhang noticed the shift in her mood and immediately stopped, turning to look at her with earnest eyes: “If you would rather not come, it is all right. I will have someone escort you out.”

Ming Huashang was silent for a long while, then shook her head — slowly, but with conviction: “It is all right. I want to go and see him.”

The place where Liao Yushan was being held was more or less what Ming Huashang had imagined. His hands were locked fast in shackles, and he stared dully up at the skylight overhead. Hearing their footsteps, he turned his head with listless indifference, then visibly stiffened upon seeing the two of them.

Immediately afterward he reined in all visible emotion, becoming cold and expressionless, utterly unreachable. Ming Huazhang noticed that Ming Huashang’s fingers had gone ice-cold — plainly her heart was not at peace. He quietly tightened his grip on her hand and asked: “Liao Yushan, you served as Jing Zhaoyin, and yet you repeatedly committed acts of violence, killing people and framing the innocent. Why did you do this?”

Liao Yushan showed no reaction whatsoever, not the slightest intention of cooperating. Ming Huazhang shifted his approach: “Looking at the case files you compiled in your earlier years, it is clear you were not beyond redemption from the beginning — there was a time you investigated cases with genuine conscientiousness. How could you have gone from being a pursuer of criminals to someone who inflicts harm? When you were killing those elderly people, women, and children — could you honestly answer to your conscience?”

“Conscience?” Liao Yushan repeated the word softly, as though he had heard something remarkably strange. He lifted his gaze to Ming Huazhang. “Do you believe in conscience? A person of conscience cannot do this, cannot do that — retreating step after step, suffering one loss after another — while a person without conscience encroaches inch by inch, living better and better. Is that the outcome you are after?”

Ming Huazhang said: “I know that such things exist in this world. We should seek ways to punish evil and uphold good — to protect fairness. But you cannot permit yourself to commit evil simply because others have committed evil.”

Liao Yushan let out a cold laugh, his expression deeply contemptuous. Ming Huazhang was unmoved, and asked calmly: “What is it? Do you think there is something wrong with what I said?”

“You say these things because you are fortunate — it is like Emperor Hui asking why the people do not eat meat porridge.” Liao Yushan was utterly cold and cutting. “You are the heir of a ducal house, born into wealth and family standing, with no one to humiliate you — so you can speak with righteous indignation about not abandoning virtue over trifling losses. But what is a trifling loss to you may be another person’s entire world.”

Ming Huazhang sensed something beneath the words and asked: “Are you referring to your daughter?”

“Do not speak of her!” Liao Yushan suddenly erupted. His eyes were bloodshot, and he said through clenched teeth: “You are not worthy!”

When Ming Huazhang had first come to suspect Liao Yushan but could not step away because of Ming Huashang’s illness, he had not been idle. He had investigated Liao Yushan’s life and discovered a certain passage between Liao Yushan and Yan Jingcheng — or, more precisely, between Liao Yushan and the Empress.

Eleven years ago, Liao Yushan had just entered officialdom at the same time the Empress had newly proclaimed herself Emperor. The Empress needed a large number of capable hands; Liao Yushan, equally, harbored a heart full of earnest ambition and wished to distinguish himself in service of the state. It was only natural that Liao Yushan joined the Xuan Xiaowei. Not long afterward, the Empress decided to move the capital to Luoyang, abandoning Chang’an, where the Li Tang influence ran too deep. Liao Yushan, as the Empress’s “eyes,” was left behind in the old capital to observe everything in Chang’an on her behalf.

In those days he despised evil and upheld integrity without compromise. Whatever he deemed improper, he would report at once. He held firm to the belief that good and evil were clearly distinguished, that cause and effect brought their due rewards, and that wrongdoers would unfailingly face punishment.

In the second year of the Tianshou reign, a spring plague swept through Chang’an. Yan Jingcheng bribed a great many powerful people and used them to drive up the price of medicines in the city — colluding with the nobility to profit from the people’s suffering. Liao Yushan was naturally unable to tolerate this. He immediately wrote a secret letter to Luoyang, appealing to the Empress to quell the chaos, and at the same time firmly declared his own position and denounced the merchants led by Yan Jingcheng. He even submitted several memorials of impeachment pointing directly at the nobles behind Yan.

Liao Yushan had never imagined the Empress would abandon them and do nothing — and so when he accused Yan Jingcheng, he held nothing back, even directing multiple impeachments squarely at the aristocrats who stood behind him. His conduct naturally offended a great many people, including colleagues within the Jing Zhaofu. The Jing Zhaoyin at the time suppressed Liao Yushan, and his colleagues mocked and openly obstructed him.

All of this Liao Yushan could endure. What he had never imagined was that these people would stoop to tampering with his daughter’s food — infecting her with the plague.

Liao Yushan’s salary was meager, and he had no connections. How was he to buy the medicines whose prices had been driven through the roof in Chang’an? He exhausted every penny of his family’s savings to treat his daughter — but lacking the key medicines, the treatment barely took effect.

Those people deliberately drove him to the most desperate, most wretched extremity — and then Yan Jingcheng appeared before him in high spirits, saying that as long as Liao Yushan withdrew those several memorials of impeachment, he would give him the medicinal herbs for his daughter’s treatment free of charge, and that when there was money to be made in the future, he would bring Liao Yushan in for a share.

Liao Yushan refused to sink into corruption. He rejected the offer without a moment’s hesitation. Over and over he sent desperate secret letters to Luoyang — but Luoyang was like a place struck deaf, and never once sent a reply.

Only later did Liao Yushan learn that the nobles to whom Yan Jingcheng had “paid tribute” included the Empress’s own children and nephews. Perhaps the Empress was shielding her children; perhaps she felt the matter was not worth her attention; perhaps the court had more pressing affairs demanding her time. But regardless — for the sake of her own rule, she had abandoned Chang’an.

And she had abandoned the countless nameless cogs like Liao Yushan along with it.

The day Liao Yushan’s daughter died, there was thunderous rumbling in Chang’an, and the spring rain was cold enough to cut to the bone. He carried his daughter, knocking on the door of physician after physician, begging them to save his child. But no one would squander their resources on a complete stranger — not even one who was, by all accounts, a decent and honorable man.

When Liao Yushan came at last to the long-established Huichun Hall in Chang’an, his strength had all but given out, and he fell heavily to the ground. He heeded nothing but scrambled back to his feet at once, terrified of having jolted his daughter — yet what he felt beneath his hands was the chill of her body.

She was dead. Killed by her own father — that helpless, naive, self-righteous man.

After that, Liao Yushan witnessed a great many births and deaths, joys and sorrows. He discovered that to suffer the loss of a loved one in utter helplessness was not his fate alone. Tragedy unfolded in every corner of that city.

He watched Yan Jingcheng grow wealthier and wealthier, even taking up philanthropic works with great fanfare, until people called him Benefactor Yan. He watched Song Yanbo’s aged parents kneel at the feet of young officials, pleading with them again and again to investigate their son’s death once more — only to be driven from the inn in the end when their travel money ran out. He watched Qian Yi kill his own master, marry his master’s widow, and yet weep with profound devotion before the master’s grave, so that everyone praised him as a paragon of filial piety.

How terrifying. When had the world become this way?

In the deep of night over all those years, Liao Yushan knelt before his daughter’s memorial tablet and turned this question over and over in his mind. In the end, he concluded the answer was clear: it was because of the Empress.

His daughter’s death had been caused by Yan Jingcheng — but had the Empress not been permissive, even without Yan Jingcheng, the next corrupt merchant would have risen to take his place. Yan Jingcheng was the murder weapon; he was not the executioner.

Song Yanbo, the merchant Feng — so many wrongful cases, all of them stemming from the same root.

Ten years of drinking ice has cooled the fire in the blood at last.

In the first year of the Shengli reign, the Empress at last recalled the Chang’an she had forgotten for ten years, and returned to the old capital with great ceremony. By then, Liao Yushan had contracted pulmonary disease over years of poverty and stifled despair, and had not long to live. Yet he was not willing to resign himself.

Why was it that the poor were trampled upon by birthright? Why were the powerful able to drain the people’s blood and still be praised by the world? Why did honest people retreat one step and then another, while those who committed evil were never made to pay any price?

Why? Why? Why?

And so Liao Yushan had meticulously planned a great act of vengeance, with the Empress as its culminating act. Even after the Empress returned to the capital and began reinstating old members of the Xuan Xiaowei to positions of power — granting them real authority, status, and recompense — that belated recognition had come too late.

However, though he had become the Jing Zhaoyin, he was no more than a figurehead in the Empress’s eyes, with no conceivable means of approaching the Emperor, much less carrying out an assassination. So he had cast his lot with Prince Wei, intending to draw near to the Empress through Prince Wei’s hand. In order to win Prince Wei’s trust, he had meticulously combed through case files and selected an unsolved case involving excavated bones, personally laying a trap for Prince Wei to use in luring the Twin Jades in.

He did not know who bore that title, and had no particular grievance against this younger person — but he did not care. He needed Prince Wei’s introduction, and this individual had once offended Prince Wei. That was reason enough.

While investigating the case of the excavated bones, Liao Yushan knew perfectly well that Cen Hu was no murderer. But wrongful cases could not be solved — the authorities would never right a grievance for those without power — and so it made no difference whether the culprit was real or fabricated. Besides, Cen Hu was no innocent man either; it was no injustice to have him convicted. Liao Yushan cared nothing for who the true killer was, and cared nothing if the truth came to light and disgraced him. He sought only death.

And yet his plan was wrecked by a young man newly arrived in the world of officialdom. Ming Huazhang was just like his former self — full of energy, untiring, poring over case files through the night to crack a case, unwilling to let any detail slip past, wholeheartedly pursuing what he called justice.

Had Liao Yushan met Ming Huazhang ten years earlier, they would have become kindred spirits and close friends. Had he met him five years earlier, he would have admired this young man. But the Liao Yushan of now could only feel repulsion.

The attempt to ingratiate himself with Prince Wei had failed — but it was not without reward. He had successfully gained Prince Wei’s trust, and under his subtle suggestions, Prince Wei came increasingly to seek his counsel on matters, until at last he had handed the lantern tower over entirely to Liao Yushan’s management.

Liao Yushan had read widely and was well versed in the use of gunpowder. The festival lanterns he designed quite easily captivated Prince Wei, and Prince Wei had been so delighted that he used them as a gift for the Empress. At this point, all the external conditions needed to assassinate the Empress were in place.

All that remained was to consider how to draw the Empress out of the palace. Once, this had posed no problem — for he had long since, through subtle suggestions to Prince Wei, arranged for Prince Wei to persuade the Empress to venture out of the palace for the Flower Festival. The turbulence among the common people would never disrupt the leisure of these nobles, and so Liao Yushan had confidently pressed his plan forward — intending, alongside killing the Empress, to settle accounts with several others who had escaped his reach.

Whether it was Chu Ji, who had watched and done nothing, or Yan Jingcheng, who had driven up the price of medicines — they had deserved to die long ago. In his design, dispatching these few pieces of scum was a mere incidental matter. He would commit the crimes and then investigate them himself, easily fastening the guilt on several suitably wicked individuals as the “perpetrators,” and the matter would be done with. Within three days, these deaths would become, as they always had, just another dossier gathering dust in the archives.

Killing Qian Yi and Chu Ji went exactly as he had anticipated — smooth, uneventful, without incident. But after Chu Ji’s death, an unexpected variable arose.

Ming Huashang repeatedly rejected the suspects he had put forward. He failed to pin the blame on the Liu family. Worse yet, the old cases of Song Yanbo and Chu Ji had been dug back up. Ming Huazhang posted notices throughout the city and brought in the Feathered Forest Army to intervene in the case, and the situation gradually slipped beyond Liao Yushan’s control.

Those young people were like agents of destruction — endlessly finding gaps in his plan to puncture through. Liao Yushan could only respond in a reactive scramble. Ming Huazhang and his companions found Hei Hu, and when Liao Yushan went to the prison to meet Ming Huazhang, Hei Hu inadvertently caught a clear look at his face.

Back in the day, when Yan Jingcheng had come to Liao Yushan’s home to apply pressure, it was Hei Hu who had accompanied him. Liao Yushan feared that Hei Hu would recognize him and expose him to Ming Huazhang — which would place the entire plan in jeopardy. He could only hint to the prison guards to use torture on Hei Hu, and then tamper with Hei Hu’s food and drink, poisoning him with sulfur powder. After that, he quietly steered opinion so that everyone concluded — just as he had intended — that the torture had been excessive and Hei Hu had not survived it.

Leaving behind that damning evidence was a risk — but it was better than being found out.

The third to die was Yan Jingcheng. Yan Jingcheng evidently still remembered what had passed between them all those years ago, for no sooner had he received Liao Yushan’s note than he came hurrying to the appointment without daring to breathe a word to anyone.

In those days, Yan Jingcheng had dared to treat Liao Yushan with such contempt for one simple reason: he assumed Liao Yushan would remain a lowly official for the rest of his life, utterly incapable of posing any threat to Yan Jingcheng. He had never imagined that ten years later, Liao Yushan’s fortune would suddenly reverse in spectacular fashion, and he would be elevated to the position of Jing Zhaoyin.

Yan Jingcheng came hastening to curry favor, attempting to repair the relationship in the pavilion. As Liao Yushan watched his ingratiating manner — so insolent before, so fawning now — he felt only revulsion. He presented Yan Jingcheng with a gold tablet engraved with the character for “emptiness.” Yan Jingcheng took it for some kind of signal or gift, and happily hung it at his waist. Liao Yushan smiled coldly to himself, lit the fuse, and found a pretext to take his leave.

Not long after Liao Yushan departed, the Sun-Moon Pavilion exploded behind his back. He laughed inwardly with contempt. What use was a mountain of accumulated wealth — a piece of filth like Yan Jingcheng deserved only to be blown into pieces of meat, to die without a burial ground.

Killing one person and leaving behind a clue pointing to the next — that had been part of his design from the very beginning. He intended to warn these sinners in advance that he was coming for them — and that they could do nothing about it.

But then an unexpected development arose: Ming Huashang actually deciphered his riddle, and discovered the sun-moon symbol inside the pavilion. Liao Yushan feared they would take notice of the gold tablet — the sun and moon above, and the character “emptiness” carried on Yan Jingcheng’s body below would make it easy to connect the two to the Empress. He could only use the pretext of official business to slip into the mortuary and remove the gold tablet from Yan Jingcheng’s person.

This had undeniably blemished the perfection of his revenge, and it sat in Liao Yushan’s throat like a fishbone — deeply uncomfortable. But what troubled him most was Ming Huashang’s portrait.

As he listened to Ming Huashang describe the killer, he was inwardly gripped with alarm at every word. Each detail she named was accurate. She had even said, in front of everyone, that the killer had no children at his side. Liao Yushan felt a profound sense of violation at that — and fury.

Who was she, to think she understood him? Liao Yushan overheard the conversation between Ming Huashang and Xie Jichuan — she had said with compassion that the killer was not truly a wicked person, only someone who had strayed down the wrong path.

Strayed down the wrong path. What a notion. There had been no second path available to him.

Liao Yushan was seething with resentment, and the plan for his revenge had by this point been severely threatened. The case dragged on and on, the affair growing larger and more entangled. At this rate, the Empress would not leave the palace for the Flower Festival, and all his preparations would come to nothing.

The next opportunity might not come for a long time — and he might not live to see it.

Liao Yushan was in a state of anxious agitation. When he spotted Ming Huashang’s maidservant in the vicinity of his home and overheard the girl making inquiries about his daughter, his reason collapsed entirely.

She thought she could see into the depths of people’s hearts — thought she understood the killer? Very well. He would show her the price of rashly peering into the darkness.

He killed the maidservant. Just as Yan Jingcheng had once done to him — punishing an enemy by harming those close to her. He would let Ming Huashang know that people should mind their own affairs, that they should not assume themselves so capable as to stand on high and save others.

Liao Yushan was wearing the robes of the Jing Zhaoyin, and had no difficulty at all in calling Zhao Cai to a secluded and out-of-the-way alley. Zhao Cai had no wariness of him whatsoever, and spoke freely — so Liao Yushan found her vital point without effort and stabbed her, killing her with a single thrust.

The girl seemed to be in great pain. She doubled over on the ground, clutching her abdomen, her throat choked with blood — she could feel the agony but could not cry out. This Liao Yushan had anticipated entirely — it was deliberate, the place he had chosen to drive the blade. Afterward, Liao Yushan calmly cleaned the scene, disposed of the blood-stained garments, and arranged for a scapegoat.

But he could not bring himself to accept that his perfect plan for revenge had been stained with this blemish. Without forewarning — without the victim knowing what was coming — the revenge had no meaning. He could not help tucking the gold tablet into Zhao Cai’s clothing. A woman’s accessories were numerous; no one would think the tablet out of place. In this way, his plan remained perfect in its own fashion.

He had spent eleven years in the Jing Zhaofu. He understood better than anyone how the authorities handled cases. And ten years working at the grassroots level, dealing with all manner of petty affairs, had introduced him to many strange individuals — people who lived apart from society, unwelcome wherever they went. Exposing them as murderers would draw no objections from anyone; people would simply think: of course, it all makes sense now.

Yang the Half-Crazed was one such person. He directed the clues toward Yang, discarded the murder weapon at Yang’s home, and then, face covered, spoke to Yang in the guise of a divine spirit — guiding the man to admit that the explosion and the killing had both been his own doing. For a person of unsound mind, nothing could have been easier.

As he had wanted, Ming Huashang fell ill and did not appear the following day. Without Ming Huashang to disrupt things, he successfully steered the others to the “true culprit” and concluded the case in short order.

He went to the palace to make his report. His run of bad luck seemed to have run out. Things proceeded even more smoothly than he had anticipated. The Empress showed no suspicion regarding the authenticity of the culprit, accepted the result with ease, and was in the mood to go out and enjoy herself.

At last, events had returned to the track Liao Yushan had planned — yet he felt no gladness. You see, this was the nature of those in power: no matter how the world shook apart outside their walls, no matter how the floods rose, it would never interrupt their pleasures.

She deserved to die. Liao Yushan reaffirmed his conviction once more.

The Flower Festival itinerary had proceeded with unexpected smoothness — none of the dangers he had guarded against came to pass. Liao Yushan watched the Flower Goddess lantern float toward him and felt a serenity he had not known in a long while.

He thought of the day his daughter had died — it had also been a spring day, just like this one. After so many years, he, her father, had at last done something for her.

Liao Yushan waited calmly for death to descend — but at the very last moment, that pair of siblings appeared again, without warning, and upended his plan. Thinking of how it had looked in that instant, Liao Yushan was overcome with such fury that his eyes went red. He roared: “Just one more step — it was only one more step! Why? Why did you have to oppose me at every turn?”

Ming Huazhang heard Liao Yushan’s words and looked at him in silence, compassion rising in his gaze. Liao Yushan was inflamed by that look. With bitter resentment he cried: “You were born into a good family — smooth sailing, nothing to worry about — so of course you can look down from on high and ignore the suffering of others. But I am telling you: what you are protecting is not justice at all. You are protecting your own positions and power, merely clothing it in the name of justice. You are nothing but the hunting dogs of those nobles.”

Liao Yushan was biased and cutting, and showed every sign of knowing no remorse. Ming Huazhang felt a deep, quiet disappointment. There was no point arguing with such a person. Let him believe whatever he wished to believe.

Ming Huazhang was on the verge of turning to leave when Ming Huashang at his side suddenly spoke: “Setting aside the rest for now — you say that because the two of us were born into a ducal house, we have had smooth sailing and know nothing of hardship. I cannot agree with that. You see only the suffering you yourself have experienced. But how do you know that those people you killed suffered less than you?”

Liao Yushan was taken aback, on the verge of a sneer — but Ming Huashang pressed forward, her face cold: “Please allow me to finish. You were poor and destitute, your wife gone and your child dead — and so you judged the world to be unjust, and decided it was better to drag everyone into ruin. But there are many people in this world who have lived in far greater misery than you, and yet they live on with optimism and effort regardless. The woman you killed was called Zhao Cai. When she was small, she did not have enough to eat; at the age of seven, she was sold by her own parents and became a servant and bondswoman in a wealthy household. Compared to what she went through, what is your frustrated ambition in the authorities? She did not even have the standing to set foot through the authority’s gates.”

“And yet she was a cheerful and kind-hearted young woman. She never complained, not a single word, and gave everything she had to those around her. She had no money of her own, no family of her own — she had never even experienced falling in love, starting a family, or bearing children — and then she was killed by you. Magistrate Liao, I ask you: what was your reason for killing her? Did she have any deep enmity with you?”

Liao Yushan fell silent. He could not find words. Ming Huazhang quietly tightened his hold on Ming Huashang’s hand. Ming Huashang held back the tears welling in her eyes and continued: “She did not. Magistrate Liao — in my eyes, you are a coward. Your own life was going badly, so you went and hurt someone weaker than yourself — yet you never once dared to try changing the world. There are indeed people who have lived better than you. But there are also many who have lived far worse. Those who carry their hardships and still wish to live well, those who survive from day to day and yet still cherish their lives — what right do you have to strip them of their futures?”

Liao Yushan curled his lip in a sardonic smile, his voice hoarse and hollow: “Change the world?”

Clearly, he did not believe it. Ming Huashang knew too that these words, said aloud, were naive enough to invite ridicule — like a mayfly attempting to topple a great tree. And yet she said them anyway: “If the world is wrong, go and change the world. Destruction solves nothing. If you cannot change it yourself, then pass that purpose on to your children, and let it be carried forward generation by generation. Even Foolish Old Man Yu could move the mountains in the end.”

Ming Huashang finished speaking, looked at Liao Yushan one final time, and turned to leave. She had been gravely ill not long before — the shadows beneath her eyes had not yet faded, and her whole person was worn and weakened. But as she walked through that dark and oppressive prison corridor, something about her made one inexplicably wary, as though nothing in this world could ever bring her down.

Ming Huazhang stood watching her retreating figure in silence. He turned and swept his gaze over Liao Yushan — who had gone completely rigid. In truth, Ming Huazhang had a great deal of evidence with which to counter Liao Yushan — his own national and familial grievances, for example, or the ordeals that Ming Huashang and Su Yuji had suffered. But as the words rose to his lips, he felt that saying them would be entirely meaningless.

A life is one’s own. Only those willing to fight against fate will see the end of the road. The course of that struggle, and its outcome, have nothing to do with anyone else.

In the end, Ming Huazhang said nothing at all to Liao Yushan, and instead quickened his steps to catch up with Ming Huashang. Though this road could only be walked alone — if another person walked it alongside you, rousing you when you faltered and standing beside you in your pain, the monster called fate seemed not quite so terrifying after all.

Ming Huazhang quickly caught up with her. The two of them walked out of the dark prison together, stepping into the vast, surging sunlight of the world outside. Ming Huashang had come abruptly from darkness into blazing light, and her eyes were stung with pain. She raised a hand to shield herself from the sun, yet refused to close her eyes.

It was curious, the instincts of human beings — when faced with darkness, the first impulse is to draw away; when faced with light, the impulse is to adjust, to adapt, to merge into it as swiftly as possible.

Ming Huashang thought: to be alive — what a sacred thing it was. Sacred enough that a seed would seek out any crack in a sheer cliff and push forth a sprout; sacred enough that birds and beasts would fight to the death for food.

Life burns as brilliantly as summer blossoms; one advances toward death in order to truly live.

And so she too would live with passion and purpose — even if the evil in this world would never reach its end; even if drawing near to the abyss meant the darkness would strike back; even if what she gained and what she lost were hopelessly out of balance.

What of it?

She would forever stand against the darkness. And even if she fell, behind her there would be ten thousand others holding their torches. Foolish Old Man Yu moved his mountain; even if those of her generation perished in the effort, justice and light would never be extinguished.

Ming Huazhang stood at her side, raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, and waited quietly for her. The corners of Ming Huashang’s eyes grew wet with the tears that the light had drawn forth. In the haze of radiance, she saw Ming Huazhang.

He smiled gently at her, and said softly: “Let us go home.”

Ming Huashang blinked. At last her eyes began to adjust to the light. She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, lifted her head, and smiled: “All right. Let us go home.”

The second year of the Shengli reign, the third month — I have no idea what day it is. I never keep track of dates.

Just got back from Marquis Pingnan’s residence. That tomboy of a woman was grumbling up a storm, but when the iron certificate of merit arrived, she actually cried! Ha! She cried!

She spent all those years tying herself in knots, and she finally got what she wanted. Not like me — I was born lucky. Whatever I want comes to me.

In a couple of days, I am going to the Prince of Yong’s residence to attend Ming Huazhang’s feast. Actually, I should call him Li Huazhang now.

It turns out he was not the Duke Zhenguo’s biological son at all, but the posthumous child of Crown Prince Zhanghuai. Strangely enough, the Sage did not pursue the question of why — only had Ming Huazhang move out of the Zhenguo Ducal Residence and granted him the Prince of Yong’s residence as his estate. My father went quiet for a long time when he heard the news, then for some inexplicable reason said that “Yong” was a fine title — that after waiting all these years, the Crown Prince and Princess Taiping had finally seen their suffering turn to joy.

I have no idea what is so good about the title “Yong” — it takes forever just to write those characters. But my father insists I get on closer terms with Ming Huazhang. I am furious — an event this momentous, and he kept it from me! He clearly does not treat me like a brother! I refuse to keep being brothers with him unless he treats me to a proper feast.

There was something else I was going to write, but I have forgotten it. Never mind, that is all.

Jiang Ling, Undefeated Champion of the World, Number One Most Handsome — written in Chang’an, at my house.

— Case 5: The Twilight of the Empire, END.