The members of the Pure Stream faction stood frozen, their faces ashen and their spirits crushed. It was as if their very spines had been removed.
The meticulously prepared arguments, the citations of ancient classics, the earnest protests—even the scathing impeachments hidden in their sleeves—had all become a laughingstock.
The Emperor sat atop his Dragon Throne, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on that slender back. He could not see Gu Huaiyu’s expression, but he could easily imagine how the man had looked while presenting his case—a slight tilt of the brow, eyes shimmering with a mix of mockery and sharpness, and the corners of his lips curled into a cold, faint smile.
That was the Gu Huaiyu he remembered from their youth.
The Emperor’s fingertips unconsciously brushed against the carved dragon on his armrest.
Which one is the real Gu Huaiyu?
Was it the pillar of the state standing before the court now, fighting for the future of Great Chen with a logic that commanded respect? Or was it the cold-blooded tyrant who, only moments ago, had sat upon a high sandalwood chair and indifferently ordered a man to be butchered on the jade steps?
The silence in the hall was as heavy as stagnant water. The Pure Stream faction no longer possessed the right or the leverage to argue.
Grand Preceptor Dong’s face was a mask of livid rage. Unable to find words, he cast a desperate glance toward the imperial kinsmen. However, the princes and dukes who usually carried themselves with such arrogance were now looking at the floor, not daring to make a sound.
Who would dare touch this burning coal?
If Gu Huaiyu wanted to slaughter the Pure Stream scholars, he still had to worry about the opinions of the literary world. But if he wanted to kill the imperial family… they didn’t even have a decent reputation to protect them, let alone public sympathy. Over the years, the high-born nobility kept in the capital had become nothing more than pampered puppets. The man on the throne would never risk offending Gu Huaiyu for their sake.
“Your Majesty, this servant has a petition.”
A refined, gentle voice broke the silence.
Prince Xian met Grand Preceptor Dong’s gaze before standing and bowing toward Yuan Zhuo. Though this prince was nearing forty and his hair was touched with frost, every movement still carried the grace of the imperial house.
Prince Xian was the older brother of the late Emperor Rui and the current Emperor’s uncle. After Emperor Rui took the throne, he had lived in constant fear of a coup. Using the excuse of “accompanying the Grand Empress Dowager to show filial piety,” he had kept all his brothers under soft house arrest in the capital. To survive to this day while retaining a princely title meant one was either a fool or someone who hid their depth incredibly well.
Prince Xian was the latter—a master of concealment.
Years ago, he had volunteered to guard the imperial tombs, staying out of politics, never marrying, and remaining childless for a decade. Yet, he held an impeccable reputation and great prestige among the clan, living up to his title of “Xian,” meaning “Virtuous.”
Yuan Zhuo had a good impression of him and nodded. “Uncle, please speak.”
Prince Xian turned toward Gu Huaiyu, his eyes shining with undisguised admiration. “I believe the Lord Chancellor is correct.”
“Civil officials and military officers are all servants of Great Chen. If the Eastern Liao cavalry ever rides south, will they distinguish between the pen and the sword? At that point, I fear we will all be forced to trade these official robes for the barbarian tunics of the north.”
Gu Huaiyu took a sip of tea and offered only a faint, silent smile.
This old fox was playing both sides—giving Gu Huaiyu face while avoiding a direct offense to the Pure Stream. He was slippery as an eel; no wonder Emperor Rui could never find an excuse to take his life.
Seeing that Gu Huaiyu wasn’t biting, Prince Xian wasn’t discouraged. He continued with conviction: “If that day truly comes, those of us sitting here will have failed more than just the legacy of our ancestors.”
“We would be the eternal criminals of history! Our heritage has been passed down for a thousand years. How can we let it end with our generation? The pain of the ancient barbarian invasions is still recorded in our scrolls. Do you all wish for Great Chen to be remembered as the era that lost the soul of our people?”
These words were like a sharp dagger, precisely stabbing the Pure Stream’s most vulnerable spot. Centuries from now, who would remember today’s court debate? But the infamy of “losing the empire’s heritage” would follow their names for eternity.
Grand Preceptor Dong’s face turned even darker. He had thought Prince Xian was rising to support him, but he hadn’t expected the usually mild-mannered prince to deliver such a finishing blow at the critical moment.
Seeing his allies wavering, the Grand Preceptor refused to give up. He stared at Gu Huaiyu, suppressed his fury, and said, “I have one question—not to argue, but to seek the truth.”
“Great Chen has paid tribute to Eastern Liao for seventy years. We have traded goods and maintained diplomatic relations. When His Majesty ascended the throne, he even sent an envoy to ensure border peace. Under such circumstances, how can the Chancellor be so certain that the cavalry is coming? Or is the court intending to break our treaties and recklessly provoke a war?”
The implication was clear: Gu Huaiyu was a warmonger disturbing the peace.
Yet, no one in the Pure Stream faction backed him. After the previous display, most had lost their fighting spirit. Thus, Qin Zijin was forced to step forward. He bowed toward the throne. “I believe the Grand Preceptor is correct.”
