Gu Huaiyu’s laughter subsided, replaced by a cold, thin smile. He withdrew the earring, pinching the emerald bead between his fingertips. He held it against Pei Jingyi’s ear, his expression one of serious, focused scrutiny. “A fine horse deserves a fine saddle. This suits you perfectly, General Pei.”
Pei Jingyi would have preferred carrying an actual horse saddle on his back over wearing such a thing. His eyes twitched almost imperceptibly as he lowered his voice. “This subordinate has learned his lesson. I beg the Chancellor to stay his hand.”
Gu Huaiyu looked down at him. So, he knows how to beg for mercy now? Where was this attitude earlier?
He toyed with the earring, rotating it slowly between his fingers as if he hadn’t heard a word. “This is a reward from the Chancellor himself. Does General Pei intend to refuse it?”
Pei Jingyi suddenly leaned forward, rubbing his cheek against Gu Huaiyu’s palm in a calculated display of submission. He nudged against the hand, once, then twice. “I will accept anything the Chancellor bestows upon me, but to wear this…”
“People will think I’m a deviant.”
Gu Huaiyu flipped his hand, lightly slapping Pei Jingyi’s flushed cheek. “And are you not?”
“I am,” Pei Jingyi admitted without a second’s hesitation. He tilted his head back to look at Gu Huaiyu, a smile playing on his lips that revealed a hint of his sharp canines. “But does the Chancellor truly want the whole world to know it?”
“Do you actually care about that?”
“…No.”
Pei Jingyi’s voice dropped even lower, taking on a mysterious, ambiguous edge. “But what if someone asks me what crime I committed to earn this? I might accidentally let it slip—”
Before he could finish, Gu Huaiyu’s fingers flicked. The golden needle of the earring pierced straight through the flesh.
Pei Jingyi’s brow furrowed sharply. He let out a muffled groan as a bead of bright red blood trickled down his neck.
Gu Huaiyu grabbed the gilded pendant, forcing Pei Jingyi to keep his chin tilted up. “Try saying a single word. I dare you.”
Fine beads of sweat broke out on Pei Jingyi’s forehead, sliding down the sharp line of his brow. It hurt—it hurt intensely—but within that pain was a surge of inexplicable pleasure.
He slanted his dark, heavy gaze upward. “This subordinate was merely going to say… I would tell them about our conversation regarding how I pleasure myself.”
“As for what happened with the Chancellor, I would never tell a soul.”
Gu Huaiyu was moderately satisfied with this admission, until Pei Jingyi added a sudden, parting shot: “Otherwise, wouldn’t everyone try to fight me for that handkerchief?”
“…”
Gu Huaiyu was so exasperated he actually laughed. Were there really this many deviants in the world?
He pulled his hand back. Pei Jingyi remained kneeling at his feet. His face was strikingly handsome and rugged, his features defined by the hard, tempered lines of a man who belonged on the battlefield. Yet, on such a face, a delicate gilded earring now swayed from his lobe.
It made him look like a rakish libertine, radiating a raw, untoward sensuality that was almost unbearable to look at.
Gu Huaiyu slowly withdrew his gaze. He took a cloth from a servant and wiped the blood from his fingers. “Stay on your knees. You may rise at dawn.”
It was the height of winter. The cold from the bluestone floor tiles was bone-chilling; an ordinary man wouldn’t have survived until the third watch.
But he knew Pei Jingyi’s constitution was robust. No matter how he was tossed around, the man wouldn’t die.
When the decree for the assembly at Zichen Hall was issued, the members of the Pure Stream Faction knew the truth.
Gu Huaiyu was making his move.
From his refusal to increase the tribute to Eastern Liao to the earth-shattering “Death of Wu Wei,” even the most obtuse of the Pure Stream scholars could smell his wolfish ambitions.
This placed the faction in a harrowing dilemma.
While the Late Emperor, Emperor Rui, was still on the throne, Gu Huaiyu had been the most steadfast “appeasement advocate” in court. He had championed bowing to Eastern Liao for the sake of peace.
Back then, the Pure Stream Faction shouted slogans about “reclaiming our lost lands” and “barbarians cannot be trusted” every day. They had cursed Gu Huaiyu as a “traitorous minister” and a “seller of the nation.”
Now, the world had turned upside down. Gu Huaiyu had transformed into a hawk, leaving the Pure Stream Faction unsure of how to act.
When it came down to it, shouting slogans was one thing; actual war was another. Most officials did not want to fight.
The current political situation was stable, and the lives of the literati were comfortable. Once war broke out, chaos followed—prices would skyrocket, the world would destabilize, and the first to be discarded would be the scholars.
But what kept them awake at night was Gu Huaiyu himself.
The Chancellor already held the reins of the court. If he were to seize military and administrative power under the guise of war, no one would ever be able to restrain him again.
