Yun Niang pushed open the door and whispered, “General, please enter.”
The scent of warm incense drifted through the air. Gu Huaiyu reclined against a soft chaise, a snowy-white fox-fur cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, making his complexion appear as luminous as polished jade.
Shen Jun knelt before a low table, reporting in a low voice.
Hearing Pei Jingyi enter, Shen Jun’s voice faltered. A somber, knowing curve tugged at the corners of his eyes before he continued, “Lord Chancellor, the Imperial Ancestral Temple is already filled with kneeling members of the imperial clan. A petition written in blood, signed by the entire Hanlin Academy, has been delivered to the Emperor.”
“If the assembly proceeds as scheduled tomorrow, I fear you will be facing the entire court.”
Standing by the door, Pei Jingyi studied Gu Huaiyu with a newfound intensity.
This was a man about to make an enemy of the entire world, yet he sat there with effortless poise. His fingers idly toyed with the silver rings of a hand-warmer, as if the stormy seas of dissent outside had nothing to do with him.
Pei Jingyi had known of this man’s methods and had experienced them firsthand, yet he still could not see into his heart.
Gu Huaiyu had just managed to salvage some of his reputation through disaster relief, only to provoke public fury again for this cause. If it was to win over the people, the cost was far too high. If it was to… win his heart…
Pei Jingyi’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he lowered his gaze.
“Shen Jun.” Gu Huaiyu looked at the man, his voice drawling with a weary laziness. “Will you stand by my side tomorrow?”
Shen Jun immediately kowtowed, answering without a shred of hesitation, “This humble official will forever stand by the Lord Chancellor.”
Gu Huaiyu nodded slightly. “The assembly will proceed as planned.”
He had expected this scene, just as he had expected the officials of his own faction to be unreliable. Whether Shen Jun’s loyalty was genuine or feigned did not matter; what mattered was that someone was willing to stand with him at this moment.
The arrow had been loosed; there was no turning back.
After tomorrow, he would either completely rewrite the Great Chen’s century-old ancestral laws and establish the prestige of military officers within the court—ensuring a chance at a final life-and-death struggle against Eastern Liao—or he would die even faster than he had in the original story. Before anyone else could lay a hand on him, he would drown in the scorn and spittle of the realm’s scholars.
“Hiding is not a solution.” Gu Huaiyu’s gaze swept over Shen Jun and Pei Jingyi. He said coolly, “If I do not personally go to meet those ‘Pure Stream’ officials, this matter will never end.”
Shen Jun pressed his forehead against the floor and closed his eyes, his tone resolute. “No matter how the situation turns tomorrow, I will bear the burden alongside you, My Lord.”
Gu Huaiyu gave a soft hum of affirmation, his finger tapping lightly against a silver ring. “Go back and rest.”
Shen Jun bowed deeply. As he rose, he cast a haunting, lingering glance at Pei Jingyi before turning to depart.
As the door clicked shut, leaving only the two of them, the atmosphere became inexplicably subtle.
Pei Jingyi offered no useless pleasantries. He dropped to both knees in a clean, decisive motion, cupping his hands in a formal salute. “Pei Du is ready to follow the Lord Chancellor’s command.”
He had long been dissatisfied with the plaque hanging above Xuande Gate.
Of those eight large characters—Civilian Governance for the Court, Martial Might for the Frontiers—he saw only a court choked by the foul air of infighting and power struggles. As for martial might… Great Chen paid annual tribute to Eastern Liao, acting as little more than a vassal state. Where was the “might” to be found?
But to take down that plaque, he had seen no path other than rebellion.
Now, Gu Huaiyu had removed it with a mere flick of his wrist. It allowed Pei Jingyi, a caged beast trapped in the capital, to see a different way forward.
Gu Huaiyu slowly tilted his head. A submissive Pei Jingyi was a rare sight indeed. His snowy toes peeked out from beneath the fox fur, tapping lightly on the floor tiles in front of the table. “Kneel closer.”
Pei Jingyi’s gaze brushed against the hint of rosy pink on those jade-like feet, and he quickly averted his eyes.
Moving with efficiency, he walked on his knees until his tall frame, even while kneeling, was level with Gu Huaiyu on the chaise.
Gu Huaiyu noticed that the red burn marks on the general’s face had nearly vanished. If only I possessed such a robust constitution, he thought, why would I need to spend every day in the company of medicinal soups?
With that thought, his fingers pinched Pei Jingyi’s cheek. “So, General Pei is finally tamed?”
Pei Jingyi looked directly into his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the faint, haunting fragrance surrounding him. “The Lord Chancellor has done what I could not.”
Gu Huaiyu released him, slowly rubbing his fingers against the general’s shoulder as if wiping away something foul. “What you could not do?”
“Is there anything in this world that you, General Pei, cannot do?”
The words were left unspoken, but both understood the subtext.
Pei Jingyi remained candid, hiding nothing. “The Lord Chancellor knows well. I can take the head of an enemy general amidst ten thousand troops, but I am forbidden from uttering a single word regarding the state’s governance.”
Forbidden from governance.
Those few words were like an invisible shackle that had choked the throats of countless soldiers.
If the Northern Frontier Army were given entirely to him, he could surely tear through Eastern Liao, reclaim the lost lands, and wash away their previous humiliations. He would make those barbarians tremble at the mere mention of the name “Pei,” ensuring the border people would never again suffer the agony of raids.
But with the ancestral laws standing above them, those civil officials who couldn’t even climb onto a horse—those “Pure Stream” scholars who had never seen blood—insisted on barking orders at seasoned veterans of the battlefield.
He was not like his father. His father had been loyal and devoted his entire life, never harboring a second thought.
But Pei Jingyi had seen through it long ago. The men sitting on the dragon throne of Great Chen were nothing more than a succession of useless wastes. If the Yuan family could sit on that throne, why couldn’t someone else?
It wasn’t until Gu Huaiyu casually tore down the plaque that had suppressed military men for a century that Pei Jingyi realized—one didn’t necessarily need to soak the Imperial City in blood to break those shackles.
Gu Huaiyu suddenly let out a soft scoff, and then he began to laugh so hard he could no longer support himself, slumping against the embroidered pillows.
His face was flushed with a vibrant, seductive glow, and the corners of his eyes turned a faint red. The white fox fur slipped halfway down, revealing the loose, cinnabar-colored inner robe beneath.
Pei Jingyi’s brow twitched. His gratitude was sincere and profound. “Why does the Lord Chancellor laugh?”
