Chapter 45.

Xue Shu walked out of the imperial prison and returned directly to the palace.

The first thing he did was arrange for people to investigate those troublesome scholars. Only when the sun dipped below the horizon did he slip into the Eastern Palace under the cover of night to report his findings.

Yin Chengyu listened, his face darkening with anger. “The Eastern Bureau has gotten far too bold for their own good.”

Ever since Emperor Longfeng summoned Gao Xian back to the capital, the once-cautious ministers had started stirring up trouble again. Particularly Gao Yuan and his ilk, strutting around as if their every petty action carried imperial authority. Though their antics hadn’t disrupted the epidemic control efforts in Yijing, their constant meddling was nothing short of infuriating.

In the past, Yin Chengyu might have played the filial son, swallowing his pride and enduring these sycophants for Emperor Longfeng’s sake. But those days were long gone. Now, the emperor himself was no longer worth Yin Chengyu’s patience—let alone his lapdogs.

“This epidemic has already left the capital teetering on edge, and now the Eastern Bureau is dragging people off left and right, throwing oil onto the flames. Scholars may seem powerless, but they’re fiercely united. And among them, there are always a few with unbreakable spines. If they push too hard, this won’t be some minor squabble—it’ll blow up into a full-blown disaster.”

Xue Shu caught his meaning immediately. “Then why not turn their strength against them? I’ll stir the pot further. Gao Yuan made the mess; he can bear the fallout. His Majesty’s already displeased with the Eastern Bureau over the fox spirit incident. If trouble breaks out again, not even Gao Xian will be able to shield him.”

Yin Chengyu’s lips curled into a cold smile, his thoughts aligning seamlessly with Xue Shu’s. He nodded. “I’ll leave this matter in your hands.”

Xue Shu accepted the command with a solemn bow, then pulled out a small embroidered pouch he’d been carrying. “Your Highness, the red cord you asked me to replace has been prepared.”

Yin Chengyu opened the pouch lazily, glancing at the contents. A simple red cord peeked out—a stark contrast to the intricacy of the pouch.

His brow arched slightly as a suspicion took root in his mind. He turned his sharp gaze on Xue Shu. “You braided this yourself?”

Xue Shu gave a quiet “yes” before adding, “Shall I help Your Highness wear it?”

Yin Chengyu studied him for a moment, then tossed the pouch back with a lazy smirk. Leaning back into his chair, he drawled, “Granted.”

A flicker of something softened in Xue Shu’s otherwise stoic eyes. For just a moment, raw emotion surfaced before being suppressed, pushed back into the depths of his expression.

Kneeling on one knee, Xue Shu lifted Yin Chengyu’s leg onto his thigh, slipping off his shoe and sock with deliberate care. Only then did he take out the red cord, loosen its adjustable knot, and fasten it snugly around Yin Chengyu’s ankle.

The bright red thread encircled the delicate curve of the ankle, accentuated by a small jade charm. It was a splash of vibrant life—a captive spring bloom caught in winter frost, daring the onlooker to look closer, to crave more.

A birthday gift, meticulously prepared and placed by Xue Shu himself.

He stared at the slender red cord, his hands tightening unconsciously. His movements slowed as he fought to quell the storm rising within him.

Yin Chengyu noticed, of course. He always noticed. His voice was deliberately teasing, laced with a cruel amusement. “What are you staring at, frozen like that? Are you planning to leave me barefoot? Hurry and put my shoes back on.”

Xue Shu had no answer, nor did he need one. The mocking tone, the playful jab—he was used to this game. His Highness delighted in pushing him to the edge, igniting his desires, only to pull away effortlessly.

And yet, he relished it.

After carefully putting Yin Chengyu’s shoes back on, Xue Shu finally raised his eyes. His gaze, sharp and unflinching, locked onto Yin Chengyu’s with unrestrained intensity. A deep, smoldering heat lay in those dark pupils. “Two more days.”

It was the 14th of the seventh month.

Yin Chengyu understood exactly what he meant. A soft scoff escaped him as he gave Xue Shu a sidelong glance, his tone somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Do you think I’m some decrepit old man who needs constant reminders? You’ve been counting down every single day—if this is how impatient you are, how can I trust you with anything serious in the future?”

Xue Shu pressed his lips together, silent and unrepentant.

He had been waiting for this day for too long. Never before had he anticipated a birthday like this. Each day crawled by, measured only by the growing weight of his yearning.

Yin Chengyu could see it all clearly on his face—the restless longing, the silent plea.

But the night was still young, and Yin Chengyu wasn’t in the mood for indulgence. He waved Xue Shu away, his tone casual yet dismissive. “Get out.”

*

Xue Shu returned to the Western Bureau reluctantly, only to find Cui Ci waiting at the gate. Earlier that day, he’d sent Cui Ci to dig into the backgrounds of those arrested scholars. Judging by Cui Ci’s expression, the investigation was complete.

“Let’s talk in the study,” Xue Shu said curtly. He didn’t bother stepping inside, turning instead to lead the way toward the study.

Once he settled into his seat, Cui Ci presented the findings.

There were nine scholars in total, all young men preparing for the upcoming imperial examination. With the outbreak of the rash plague in Wangjing, the academy had closed, leaving the students confined to the grounds, unable to return home. Restless and frustrated, they spent their days drinking, composing poetry, and debating history and philosophy.

In their drunken revelry, their words occasionally strayed into dangerous territory—reckless comments overheard by Eastern Bureau spies and dutifully recorded. This was exactly the kind of “evidence” Gao Yuan, an ambitious and conniving lackey of the Eastern Bureau, had been waiting for.

Of the nine, seven came from humble backgrounds. But two stood out: the deceased Sun Miao and another named Xie Yunchuan, both hailing from more affluent families.

Xue Shu’s eyes lingered on the name “Xie Yunchuan,” his expression darkening. The name stirred an inexplicable distaste in him, a shadow from a dream he couldn’t quite place. But he shoved the feeling aside and read on with cold precision.

Sun Miao’s family were merchants of modest wealth. His grandfather, however, was a man who revered scholars, donating generously to academies and funding the education of underprivileged students. In Wangjing, the Sun family was well-regarded, and Sun Miao himself was the pride of his lineage, the sole scholar in the family. Word had it that he was exceptionally gifted, and his chances of acing the upcoming examination were all but guaranteed—until now.

Xue Shu’s lips curled into a scornful sneer. “Gao Yuan really is an opportunistic fool.”

This kind of scheming was nothing new. The Eastern Bureau and the Jinyiwei had grown arrogant under Emperor Longfeng’s favor, wielding their power with reckless abandon. Twisting the truth for personal gain was practically their signature move.

Gao Yuan had uncovered a long-forgotten piece of dirt: during Emperor Xiaozong’s reign, the theater owned by the Sun family had once been linked to a traitor. Gao Yuan thought he’d struck gold. He tortured a confession out of Sun Miao, intending to present it to Emperor Longfeng as a great achievement.

What Gao Yuan failed to account for was that the Sun family had only acquired the theater later and had no connection to the incident. That didn’t matter to him—so long as Sun Miao confessed, the truth was irrelevant. With the confession, he could destroy the Sun family’s reputation and secure his reward.

But Sun Miao didn’t break. The Sun family, despite their merchant status, held scholars in the highest regard. The family patriarch was a man of unyielding principle, and Sun Miao had been raised with the same strength of character. No amount of torture could force him to admit to a crime he hadn’t committed.

Now, with Sun Miao dead in the imperial prison, Gao Yuan had nothing to show for it but the damning evidence of his own brutality and incompetence. He’d handed Xue Shu the perfect leverage on a silver platter.

“Have Sun Miao’s body properly prepared and sent back to his family,” Xue Shu ordered, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “And deliver this letter to the Sun family patriarch.”

He penned the letter swiftly, handing it to Cui Ci.

If the Sun family wanted vengeance, Xue Shu had ways to help them strike back. He’d ensure this debt was repaid in blood.

*

The Sun family’s reaction was far more explosive than Xue Shu had anticipated.

On the night Sun Miao's lifeless body was returned, it was the 14th day of the seventh lunar month, the eve of Zhongyuan Festival—a day for honoring lost souls.

The old patriarch of the Sun family, a fierce and unyielding man, ordered the body prepared and placed in an open coffin. Yet, he refused burial. Instead, he commanded the younger men of the family to hoist the coffin on their shoulders and knock on the doors of every household that had once owed the Sun family a debt of gratitude.

The coffin’s lid was left off, exposing the battered, horrifying state of Sun Miao’s corpse for all to see. Each witness was met with the old man’s tearful laments and a raw recounting of the injustice, igniting outrage among the more hot-blooded scholars who immediately joined the procession. They marched behind the coffin, determined to storm the magistrate’s office and demand justice.

Thanks to Xue Shu’s covert assistance, no one stood in their way. The crowd swelled, the streets teeming with mourners and furious onlookers, all under a storm of drifting funeral money.

But when the procession reached the Shuntian Prefecture yamen, they were stopped cold.

The prefect, all polite smiles yet full of excuses, refused to accept the case. The old patriarch, his eyes dim with age but still sharp with rage, quickly understood the reality: this magistrate dared not intervene.

After all, they were up against Gao Yuan, the East Bureau Superintendent and a confidant of the Emperor himself. Not even a hundred borrowed courages would have emboldened the prefect to challenge such a man.

The patriarch stood by the coffin, staring long and hard at the closed doors of the yamen. Finally, he made up his mind. His voice trembled with fury as he declared, "If the Shuntian Prefecture won’t take the case, then I’ll risk my life and take it to the Emperor himself!"

To knock on the gates of the Imperial Palace—to "Koukun (叩阍)"—was no small matter. By law, anyone who attempted it, right or wrong, would first receive 20 lashes.

———TN: "叩阍" is a Chinese idiom that translates to "to knock at the gate" or "to seek an audience." ———

This was precisely what Xue Shu had advised in his letter the previous night. The East Bureau obeyed only the Emperor’s commands. If they wanted to shake Gao Yuan’s power, the only way was to make the scandal so loud it reached the throne.

They had to turn this from a personal vendetta into a full-blown conflict between scholars and eunuchs.

The current Emperor, Longfeng, was wary of lingering factions from his predecessor but valued his fragile reputation just as much. The Sun family, while merchants, had earned widespread respect for supporting scholars over the years. Sun Miao himself, a scholar of modest renown, carried the honor of an official title. If even a fraction of the educated class rose up in outrage, their collective condemnation could tarnish the Emperor’s name.

The Great Yan Dynasty had no precedent for punishing dissenting voices. To quell the fury of the scholars, Emperor Longfeng would have no choice but to sacrifice Gao Yuan.

Of course, this plan relied on one thing: the Sun patriarch’s willingness to lead the charge.

By the time Xue Shu received word, the old man was already at the Wumen Gate, beating the grievance drum to demand justice. Behind him was a sea of furious scholars, their righteous anger flaring like wildfire.

The Tongzheng (Ministry of Public Administration) Office quickly dispatched an official to investigate. Upon learning the details, the official took the petition and detained the patriarch for formal proceedings.

The next day, according to custom, the Sun patriarch was to endure 20 lashes in front of the Wumen Gate before the case could proceed.

Despite his advanced age, the old man was stripped down to a coarse sackcloth, his hair and beard white as ash. Forced onto a bench with only his head exposed, he continued to cry out his grievances with unyielding resolve.

Gao Yuan had been informed of the situation but chose not to show his face, observing from a distance with a dark expression. His patience was thin as he hissed to his subordinate, “Didn’t I tell you to take care of this yesterday? How is he still alive today?”

The subordinate stammered, unable to give a proper excuse. The previous night, they had sent poisoned food into the prison, but the old man hadn’t eaten it. By the time they tried another method, the opportunity had passed.

Gao Yuan’s expression turned venomous. He cut the man off, spitting, “Go. Have a word with the executioner. Make sure he strikes hard.”

Hit with intent—leave no survivors.

The overseer dared not say more and promptly obeyed, heading off to have a word with the executioner. Such matters were routine in the palace, handled with practiced ease. A pouch of silver was discreetly slipped into the executioner's sleeve, and with a knowing glance exchanged, the deal was sealed.

However, when the time came, the overseer noticed something unsettling: the supervising officer’s toes pointed outward—a peculiar stance known to signal a lack of deadly intent.

In the nuanced world of palace beatings, there was a language of its own. If someone was meant to be crippled, they called it "strike properly." If death was the goal, it became "strike with intent." And when no orders were given, one could simply read the toes.

Toes pointed inward? Deliver the killing blows.

Toes pointed outward? Merely for show.

The sight of those outward-turned toes sent a jolt through the overseer's chest.

His gaze shifted to the unfortunate old Lord Sun, who, even after the first strike, remained conscious—screaming his grievances and curses. By the end of twenty lashes, Patriarch Sun was helped to his feet. Though his steps were shaky, his voice remained strong, his indignation undeterred.

High above, observing from a distance, Gao Yuan’s expression darkened with realization. Something was wrong. Before he could act, Xue Shu appeared, sauntering from afar, his sharp gaze lingering on Gao Yuan just long enough to cut. He offered a faint, deliberate smile before walking up to the execution grounds and announcing: “The Crown Prince has arrived.”

While it might seem like cases brought before the emperor’s court received personal oversight, the truth was that most were handled by the Board of Punishments or the Censorate. Only the rare, scandalous cases made it to the emperor himself.

With Emperor Longfeng away from the capital, the Crown Prince Yin Chengyu had taken on the role of overseer.

The Crown Prince and Xue Shu arrived almost simultaneously, though the prince didn’t spare Xue Shu a glance. Instead, his sharp eyes fixed on the kneeling Patriarch Sun, and his voice rang out: “The injustice against the Sun family—I have heard it clearly. I will personally oversee this case. It will be tried by the Ministry of Justice, and I will ensure the Sun family receives justice. Moreover, the truth will be made known to the scholars of this realm.”

He turned to Xue Shu, his tone commanding. “I hear that you were present in the Imperial Prison during this case. You will assist in the investigation.”

Xue Shu, ever the shadow, bowed low, his voice dripping with mock submission: “Your servant obeys.”

Yet, as his head rose, his eyes cut toward Gao Yuan, brimming with malice.

Gao Yuan could feel the noose tightening. Watching them exchange lines so seamlessly, his face turned ashen, his composure cracking.

———Author’s Note: Doggy: I just want to celebrate my birthday!