Outside the inner chamber, just as Cheng Chang was about to push open the door, Wei Jie spoke again. “I asked around overnight. Turns out there were actually quite a few Eastern Palace maidservants confined here after the late Crown Prince’s death. But people, once imprisoned for so long, living in constant fear day after day — up here—” he tapped his head, “—inevitably start to break down. Several have gone mad over the years, and once they were taken away, they were never seen again. Probably the old fox, afraid they’d talk nonsense, quietly disposed of them. The two left here still seem to have their wits about them, but they’re extremely wary of people — question them, and they might not answer at all.”

Cheng Chang nodded and entered the inner chamber, where he indeed found a palace maid and an attendant.

Both were emaciated beyond recognition. Seeing Cheng Chang, they shrank into the corner in terror, as if facing the god of death himself.

Cheng Chang said nothing at first. He walked to the table, poured a cup of water, then approached the two servants and offered it to them, saying, “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

The two only glanced at him with trembling fear, refusing to take the water he offered.

This made sense.

As Wei Jie had said, over the years many of the Eastern Palace maidservants confined here had gone mad or died. To these two, Cheng Chang and his companions were unwelcome intruders — refusing his water showed their wariness, their fear it might be poisoned.

Their wariness was actually a good sign — it meant their minds were still clear, that they could guess what he’d come for. This meant he needn’t hide his purpose; speaking plainly might actually win their trust.

Cheng Chang set the water aside and said, “I’ve come here to ask about the death of the late Crown Prince, Cheng Yang.”

He continued, “The Crown Prince’s death back then was suspicious, and there were murmurs at court for a long time afterward. Later, His Majesty suppressed the matter, and gradually no one spoke of it anymore. But with the recent turmoil at court, this case has resurfaced.”

He didn’t mention what exactly had caused the turmoil — if these two could understand his meaning, they would know the throne was soon to change hands.

Cheng Chang said, “I know His Majesty kept you two alive because you once served at the late Crown Prince’s side and know the true cause of his death. But—”

He paused. “A secret left unspoken, carried to the grave, remains in the end nothing but a secret no one ever knows. If you wish to defy fate, simply keeping silent won’t be enough. Today, this realm belongs to Emperor Zhaoyuan, who may allow you to linger on here. But in a year or so, if power changes hands, whether you’ll be allowed to keep your lives is another matter entirely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

At this, Wei Jie was startled.

He himself was already quite reckless in his speech, at most calling the Emperor an “old fox.” But Cheng Chang’s tone, though calm, had just implied the realm changing hands — practically cursing the old fox to die!

If overheard by the wrong ears, this alone would be more than enough to warrant execution.

But strangely enough, Cheng Chang’s words seemed to work. The attendant showed a slight softening, lifting his eyes to glance at Cheng Chang.

Cheng Chang continued, “The late Crown Prince was benevolent, far surpassing Prince Ling and Prince Yun — I always respected him. The court is in turmoil now, and who will eventually rule this realm remains uncertain. When the nest overturns, no egg remains whole. You want to survive, and so do I. Mingyin Temple has long been sealed off, and I’ve taken the risk of coming here to find you — you should know I share the same fate as you. Otherwise, why would I bother with any of this? Why would I care how the late Crown Prince actually died? Wouldn’t it be easier to simply let whoever ascends the throne next issue an order to have you quietly disposed of?”

The palace maid, hearing this, curled up even tighter, hugging her knees.

The attendant hesitated a long while, then asked in a trembling voice, “His Majesty… is he going to name Prince Yun as Crown Prince?”

Cheng Chang paused inwardly. Prince Yun?

But he didn’t answer this directly, only saying, “I’m from Prince Cong’s household, currently serving at the Censorate. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to save your lives, but if you tell me the truth of what happened back then, you’ll at least have a chance. Do you trust me?”

“This servant knows you,” the attendant said after a long moment. “You’re the Third Young Master of Prince Cong’s household. I saw you a few times when you used to visit the Eastern Palace, back when I served the Crown Prince.”

He asked, “What… what truth do you wish to know?”

Cheng Chang asked, “Back when the barbarians invaded the Tage Steppe, why did the Crown Prince recommend the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor for the campaign?”

On the surface, this question seemed to carry little significance — the Marquis guarded the northern frontier, so naturally he should be the one to lead the campaign when trouble arose there.

But thinking it through more carefully, that wasn’t quite right.

An emperor’s mind always holds certain calculations too delicate to voice aloud — such as the need for balance in managing subordinates, or the practice of regularly rotating the generals guarding the borders, lest a veteran general, stationed too long in one place, win the hearts of the local troops and people and become a self-styled regional lord, a serious threat to the throne.

At the time, Emperor Zhaoyuan had just recalled Yun Shuguang, precisely in order to assign another general to guard the northern frontier. The late Crown Prince, being astute, should have understood his father’s intentions — so why, less than a year after Yun Shuguang had returned to Jinling, would he go against Emperor Zhaoyuan’s wishes and insist so strongly on recommending the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor for the campaign instead?

Wei Jie raised an eyebrow, not expecting the Third Young Master to have noticed such a subtle inconsistency that others had overlooked.

Prompted by Cheng Chang, the attendant did indeed recall something. “The Crown Prince’s health had never been good. The year the late Empress passed, he’d just recovered from a serious illness. No sooner had he regained some strength than trouble broke out on the Tage Steppe. At the time, the Marquis had only been back in Jinling for about half a year. Though the Crown Prince had met with him twice, he hadn’t mentioned requesting his deployment. Later, after His Majesty had already settled on which general would lead the campaign, the Crown Prince, upon receiving some news, suddenly urged His Majesty to send the Marquis instead. His Majesty, trusting the Crown Prince as always, granted his request.”

Cheng Chang asked, “What news did the Crown Prince receive at the time?”

“This servant doesn’t know,” the attendant said. “After the Marquis set out on campaign, the Crown Prince’s illness never improved. He must have worried constantly about the situation on the frontier, since he was the one who’d recommended the Marquis. So when news came that the Marquis had won a costly victory at the cost of his own life, the Crown Prince blamed himself terribly, and his illness worsened greatly.”

“His Majesty summoned the imperial physicians to treat him, and they said the Crown Prince’s illness was rooted in his heart — that if the underlying distress could be cured, there might still be hope. In truth, his health had already deteriorated badly by then, and the physicians’ words were only meant to comfort His Majesty. But His Majesty believed them, and to ease the Crown Prince’s guilt, he decided that the costly victory at the frontier had been due to the Marquis’s own error — reckless pursuit of glory — and stripped him of his command title of General Xuanwei, demoting him to deputy commander under Zhaoyuan.”

Yet it was precisely this decision that led to Zhaoyuan’s betrayal, the catastrophic defeat at the Tage Steppe, and Crown Prince Cheng Yang’s illness turning fatal.

“When news of the defeat arrived, the Crown Prince was devastated with grief, and immediately sent people to investigate.”

“Investigate what?”

“I don’t know,” the attendant said. “The Crown Prince kept some very loyal guards, and someone of my station wasn’t privy to what they were looking into. But from what I could tell, it was probably about the truth behind Zhaoyuan’s betrayal.”

“That’s not right,” the palace maid suddenly spoke up. “What the Crown Prince was investigating had to do with the late Empress.”

“How do you know that?” Cheng Chang asked.

The maid said, “A few times, when I brought water and helped him change clothes, I stood outside his bedchamber and faintly overheard the Crown Prince talking with his guards, mentioning the ‘late Empress.’ Oh, and also — ‘Mingyin Temple.'”

“But what exactly they were discussing, this servant has no idea,” the maid continued. “And right up until the day before the Crown Prince passed away, he summoned that same guard again. The last thing this servant overheard the guard say to the late Crown Prince was ‘still haven’t found him,’ and then, ‘it’s been years, his appearance has changed.’ It seems that ever since the late Empress passed away, the Crown Prince had been searching for someone.”

Hearing this, Cheng Chang exchanged a glance with Wei Jie, deep in thought.

If what this maid and attendant said was true, then Crown Prince Cheng Yang had all along been searching for someone connected to Mingyin Temple. That person was very likely the child of Emperor Zhaoyuan’s, born outside the palace, that Wei Jie had mentioned before.

But the late Empress had been the principal consort, with several sons and daughters clearly recorded in the imperial genealogy. This child, scattered somewhere among the common people, couldn’t possibly have been born of her. If not born of her, then what connection could there be between them?

Could the Crown Prince’s sudden recommendation of the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor for the northern campaign also have something to do with this child?

But Cheng Chang didn’t dwell on this question for long. Having gathered a general understanding of the events of that time, he cut straight to the point. “How exactly did the late Crown Prince die? Why do people say he was poisoned?”

“That…” the attendant hesitated slightly. “The Crown Prince was indeed poisoned back then. The one who poisoned him was Prince Yun.”

“In truth, by then there was no cure left for the Crown Prince — even if he’d held on, he wouldn’t have lived more than three to five more days. But that day, the Crown Prince, seemingly struck by some sudden thought, suddenly had us dress him properly, saying he wished to see His Majesty. Before we’d even finished dressing him, Prince Yun arrived, carrying a bowl of ginseng broth, claiming it was ‘thousand-year blood ginseng’ meant as a gift for the Crown Prince, saying it would do him great good. But the Crown Prince seemed to have something to say to Prince Yun, and dismissed the two of us.”

“We had only just stepped out of the hall when we heard the sound of a bowl shattering inside, and the Crown Prince’s furious voice…” The attendant paused, recalling. “He called Prince Yun ‘foolish,’ and said ‘how dare you poison me — I thought you’d erred and meant to repent, and I wasn’t going to hold it against you.’ When we heard something had gone wrong, we rushed back inside, and saw, saw…”

At this point, the attendant began to tremble uncontrollably.

Whatever had happened must have been truly horrifying — even recalling it years later, it still left him unable to compose himself.

Cheng Chang knew this was exactly the moment not to rush. He said gently, “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

The attendant nodded, and no longer caring whether the water might be poisoned, took a sip to steady himself. After a long moment, he continued with great difficulty, “By then, the corners of the Crown Prince’s mouth and his robes were covered in blood — whether from vomiting or from the poisoned broth, I couldn’t say. His eyes and the space between his brows had gone dark, and he looked like a soul already lost, yet he was still alive, still cursing Prince Yun. As he cursed, he finally broke down and wept.”

“He wept?”

“Yes,” the attendant said. “The Crown Prince blamed himself terribly, saying he had wronged the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor, wronged the entire Yun family.”

“After that, the commotion in the Eastern Palace must have grown too loud, because it alarmed His Majesty, who came himself. Seeing the medicinal broth Prince Yun had brought for the Crown Prince still on the ground, he had the imperial physicians test it, and when it was confirmed poisoned, he immediately had the guards execute the physicians on the spot, and ordered all of us who served in the Eastern Palace confined here at Mingyin Temple. He told Prince Yun that keeping us alive as witnesses was meant to make him understand fear, understand dread.”

Cheng Chang asked, “So did the Crown Prince actually drink that bowl of poisoned broth in the end?”

“This servant doesn’t know whether he drank it or not, but the Crown Prince did indeed pass away shortly after from a sudden ‘acute illness.’ In his final moments, he seemed to want to tell His Majesty something, but didn’t get the chance. Over the years, this servant has thought it over, and believes the Crown Prince must have learned of some wrongdoing by Prince Yun and was about to report it to His Majesty. Prince Yun, wanting to stop him, resorted to the poisoned broth as a last measure — after all, the Crown Prince had only days left to live regardless, so drinking the broth and dying wouldn’t likely raise suspicion about the true cause. As for what wrongdoing Prince Yun had committed — ah, right, when the Crown Prince was cursing him, he seemed to mention something about the ‘Marquis of Loyalty and Valor’ and something about ‘stockpiled grain.'”

Cheng Chang’s heart sank. So it was true, then.

“What does that mean?” Yun Xi asked. “What grain? Are you saying my father — the Marquis’s death back then was connected to this ‘stockpiled grain’ the Crown Prince mentioned?”

The attendant shook his head. “This servant doesn’t know. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Cheng Chang nodded. “All right. Thank you both for your trouble.”

Having asked everything they needed to, the three of them left the chamber.

Dusk had already fallen. Wei Jie kicked one of the unconscious Palace Guard sentries aside and remarked with feeling, “That old fox — enduring what no one else could endure. One son tries to kill another, and he still manages to calmly clean up the mess afterward.”

“Then again,” he mused, “the eldest son was dying anyway. Whether he drank that poisoned broth or not, he didn’t have more than a couple of days left regardless. As for the fourth son, however wretched he might be, he’s still his own flesh and blood — blood runs thicker than bone, as they say. Weighing the pros and cons, it made sense to protect the younger one. For the old fox to weigh things so coldly even in a situation like that — that kind of composure is rare indeed. No wonder he became emperor.”

He went on musing and sighing dramatically for quite a while, as if watching a play, but neither of his companions responded.

Wei Jie glanced at Cheng Chang, noting his slightly furrowed brow, deep in thought, and said impatiently, “What’s with you two, silent as sealed gourds? Isn’t it all plain as day by now? The Crown Prince learned the old fox had an illegitimate son scattered somewhere out there, sent people to find him, and couldn’t. That was probably why he recommended the Marquis for the northern campaign — connected to this too, somehow. But then, unexpectedly, while the Marquis was fighting on the frontier, Prince Yun secretly diverted his troop provisions. The Marquis, forced into a corner, had no choice but to seek a swift resolution, pursuing the enemy beyond the border, only to win at devastating cost, sacrificing his own life in the process.”

“The Crown Prince found the Marquis’s death suspicious and ordered a thorough investigation into the truth, discovering it was Prince Yun who had caused his downfall. He hurried to tell the old fox, but Prince Yun must have learned of this just in time, and to stop the Crown Prince, brought over that bowl of poisoned broth. In truth, whether the Crown Prince drank the broth or not didn’t matter — once he learned Prince Yun had poisoned him, the fury alone would have been enough to finish him off.

“When the old fox arrived and saw what had happened, he probably wanted to strangle his fourth son with his bare hands. But angry as he was, he must have thought — the eldest was already done for regardless, so why drag the fourth down to the underworld with him too? If both sons died at once, the old man himself probably wouldn’t have long left to follow them down there. So he decided to protect the fourth.

“Still, since the fourth had done something truly wretched, though the old fox wanted to protect him, he wasn’t willing to let him off too easily. So he kept a few witnesses confined here at Mingyin Temple, to make sure the fourth never forgot the gravity of what he’d done.”

“As for you,” Wei Jie said to Cheng Chang, “your situation is even simpler. Didn’t that Mao Jiu fellow say the ‘noble one’ hunting you was connected to the Marquis’s household? You must have learned that Prince Yun diverted the Marquis’s stockpiled grain, and also that he poisoned the Crown Prince because of it. Prince Yun must have figured that even if the old fox is willing to shield him, if the entire court learned this secret, they’d never let him off easy — the impeachment memorials alone would bury the imperial desk, and even the old fox might not be able to protect him then. So he couldn’t afford to let you, someone who knew the secret, stay alive. He had no choice but to send people to kill you.”

The three of them left Mingyin Temple. Having talked himself hoarse the whole way, Wei Jie led Cheng Chang and Yun Xi to a resting spot at the foot of the mountain, gulped down a mouthful of cold tea from the table, and, seeing dusk settling in, said, “I’m about to starve. What do you say, want to go grab a bite together?”

Cheng Chang glanced at Yun Xi, seeing how downcast she looked, and said, “You go ahead. I’ll pass.”

“Fine,” Wei Jie said. “I’ll bring you both back a couple of flatbreads.” As he headed out of the small courtyard, he sighed with feeling, “Just look at me — providing food and lodging, clearing the way and cleaning up afterward too. Truly a bodhisattva among men — you couldn’t find someone like me with a lantern in broad daylight!”

This was a small compound at the foot of Pingnan Mountain. With night falling too quickly to make it back to Jinling, they would have to make do here for the night. By the hour of xu-mo, the surrounding wilderness was nearly deserted. While there was still a trace of light left in the sky, Cheng Chang found a candle holder and lit a lamp.

He set the lamp on the table, then turned to look at Yun Xi, who still stood unmoving by the door, looking dazed. As if sensing his gaze, she asked softly, “Third Young Master, you’ve already found out the truth of my father’s unjust death, haven’t you?”

“Is it…” She paused slightly, pressing her dry lips together. “Is it really as Lord Wei said — that Prince Yun secretly diverted the stockpiled grain meant for the northern frontier?”

Cheng Chang nodded. “Yes.”

Guided by Wei Jie’s hints, he had spent nearly a month poring over old case files at the Censorate, searching for cause and effect in the smallest details — and it hadn’t been without result.

The truth was a cruel one, and he hadn’t wanted to tell Yun Xi at first. But on second thought — why should a hero who died defending the border against invaders have to bear the shameful label of “reckless pursuit of glory”? If his death had been in vain, didn’t even his own daughter deserve to know the truth?

Cheng Chang said, “Back when the Marquis led the campaign on the northern frontier, facing a shortage of troop provisions, he sent an urgent dispatch to the Privy Council requesting reinforcements of grain. But at the time, Prince Yun was handling disaster relief for the great drought in Huaibei and was short of provisions himself, so he secretly conspired with Yao Hangshan to covertly requisition the stockpiled grain meant for the frontier. The Marquis… having waited in vain for the promised provisions, had no choice but to seek a swift resolution and pursue the enemy beyond the border, resulting in the deaths of over ten thousand soldiers, and his own life besides.”

“Back then, the Privy Council claimed my father’s urgent dispatch requesting grain reinforcements had been delayed on the road by the courier, causing him to act rashly and deploy troops prematurely,” Yun Xi said. “So in truth, it wasn’t the courier’s delay at all — the Privy Council deliberately suppressed my father’s letter, not only refusing to send reinforcements, but diverting the very grain he desperately needed to Prince Yun instead, to help him win credit for disaster relief?!”

Yun Xi’s chest surged with turbulent emotion. Forcing herself to steady, she asked, “Does the Third Young Master have proof?”

Cheng Chang shook his head. “I’ve spent my recent days on duty going through old case files, and I’ve pieced together this chain of cause and effect from the smallest details buried within them. Though the two servants at Mingyin Temple have now corroborated it, I still have no hard evidence. And since this case was suppressed by His Majesty himself, deliberately shielding Prince Yun, whatever proof exists should be in the Ministry of Finance’s records — but it won’t be easy to find.”

Or rather, pursuing this investigation covertly as they had been, there was essentially no way to find any real evidence at all.

Yun Xi was stunned. “So you’re saying there’s no hope of clearing my father’s name now?”

She raised her hand, pointing toward the direction of the palace. “My father risked his life on the frontier, and that man, just to make one case look flawless enough to win the court’s admiration and earn favor before his own father, sacrificed my father’s life and the lives of thousands upon thousands of soldiers on the northern frontier?! And even knowing all this, I still can’t clear my father’s name, and must watch helplessly as he ascends to the position of heir, becoming the next Crown Prince?”

In truth, she had never been obsessed with uncovering the truth itself, because no matter what others said outside, she had always believed in Yun Shuguang.

The Yun family stood tall and unbending, loyal and valiant through and through — why should they fear idle gossip and slander?

But the souls of the fallen heroes of the northern frontier had yet to find rest, and now she had to watch helplessly as their proud, unyielding spirits became someone else’s stepping stone to power, their blood shed in defense of the nation reduced to red dust beneath the palace steps, trampled underfoot by that man, dismissed without a second thought.

She couldn’t swallow this injustice.

Yun Xi felt that she wasn’t truly sad — she was angry, she was grieving, and it was almost unbearable, as though a great boulder were lodged in her throat, impossible to spit out or swallow down.

After finally managing to steady her breath, her eyes blinked once, and a single tear fell, striking the ground directly.

Yun Xi was startled, only then realizing she had begun to cry. She raised her arm to wipe it away, but before her hand reached halfway, someone caught it.

His fingers were cool against her skin. He pulled her close, drawing her into his embrace, the scent that clung to him equally cool and clean.

Cheng Chang called out softly, “A’Ting.”

Yun Xi looked up and saw the cool, clean line of his jaw.

She froze in his arms, not daring to move.

Cheng Chang was silent for a long while, then asked, “A’Ting, do you trust me?”

Before she could answer, he said, “I won’t let Prince Yun become Crown Prince.”

“Every injustice done to the Marquis’s household — I will win it back for you.”

“Heroes who gave their lives for their country deserve to have their merit honored and monuments raised in their memory, remembered by generations to come, in my homeland. The vindication your father and brother deserve — even a Crown Prince, even an Emperor, cannot erase it.”

Hearing this, Yun Xi couldn’t help but ask, “What does the Third Young Master intend to do?”

Cheng Chang gazed out at the now completely darkened night, and after a long moment said, “Wait a little longer, for now.”

Before even a quarter hour had passed, Wei Jie came hurrying back from his meal run, empty-handed — clearly having forgotten to bring back the flatbreads for Yun Xi and Cheng Chang. He urged, “Quick, let’s get moving. Somehow, the Palace Guard has tracked us down here.”

This small compound was one Wei Jie had built on a whim during his time serving at Mingyin Temple, enclosing a plot of land with a wooden fence and putting up two thatched huts — by rights, no one should have known about it.

Cheng Chang said, “Someone’s been following me these past few days. I noticed it — looks like Palace Guard men. Must be sent by His Majesty.”

“Is that so?” Wei Jie was startled. “Then how did you manage to shake them off when you came this morning?”

Cheng Chang glanced at him. “I didn’t shake them off.”

Wei Jie thought he’d misheard. “You didn’t shake them off? If you didn’t shake them off, then they followed you here, which means they know I brought the two of you to Mingyin Temple!”

Cheng Chang said, “Mm. They know.”

Wei Jie stared at him blankly for a moment, then asked, “Wait — are you saying you deliberately led them here?”

Cheng Chang said, “I discovered that Prince Yun privately diverted the Marquis’s stockpiled grain, but I couldn’t find proof, and had no way to dig further. Conveniently, there are witnesses here at Mingyin Temple. By leading the Palace Guard here, they can bring the witnesses into the palace, and before the assembled court officials, I can bring the charge before the Golden Throne itself and request an explicit edict from His Majesty — that way, I’ll have grounds to demand evidence from the Ministry of Finance.”

Didn’t Emperor Zhaoyuan love maintaining the appearance of peace and harmony? He wasn’t the one who’d committed all these misdeeds — why should he help shield his precious son by keeping it hidden? Bringing everything out into the open was the most effective, most decisive way to strike at the heart of the matter.

The realm was vast, and the Emperor’s word alone couldn’t dictate everything. As a ruler, he had to consider public sentiment, and the sentiments of his officials as well.

Especially since Emperor Zhaoyuan was the kind of ruler who cherished his reputation and loved to appear impartial on the surface.

He had governed diligently his whole reign — surely, in his final years, he wouldn’t want to sacrifice a lifetime’s good name.

Cheng Chang didn’t believe that, faced with irrefutable evidence, he could still shield Prince Yun.

Wei Jie said, “Didn’t I tell you? Xuan Zhi over at the Palace Guard is a bit blindly loyal. If you lead him here and he receives orders from the old fox, what if he simply disposes of the two witnesses quietly? No one would ever know.”

“He won’t,” Cheng Chang said. “Today is the sixteenth of the first month, the first day the offices reopen after the new year. There are plenty of officials coming and going on duty. The movements of the General of Guide are watched by ministers throughout the palace. Coming to Mingyin Temple to dispose of one or two witnesses would be easy enough for him, but he can’t possibly dispose of me. Besides—”

Cheng Chang added, “Aren’t you and your Imperial Guard Bureau here too?”

Wei Jie felt he might lose his mind. “You’re playing this big a game, and you didn’t think to tell me beforehand?!”

He went on, “You two go ahead and play your games — I’m not getting involved!”

With that, he turned to leave. But upon reaching the courtyard gate, he suddenly stopped, trudged back dejectedly, crouched down, and sighed. “Ugh, you’ve really done me in this time…”

The next moment, a line of guards bearing torches entered the small compound. Xuan Zhi stepped forward from among them, cupping his hands. “Third Young Master, Lord Wei, Colonel Yun — His Majesty requests your presence.”