TBR CH132

Liang Kechun had clearly come prepared. The tears he shed along this path might not have been entirely fake, but his intention to speak with Prime Minister Chu alone was certainly genuine. Unfortunately, Chu Huaicun was not traveling alone—at his side was the ever-predatory Ji Ying, someone who would devour others without leaving their bones, his eyes glinting with the desire to seize information and claim a share of the power.

Left with no other choice, Liang Kechun was willing to risk offending Ji Ying in order to speak with Chu Huaicun.

That was quite commendable courage.

Chu Huaicun thought to himself—though the question remained whether that man beside him would be willing to let go.

The man beside him stiffened for a brief second while gripping his hand. Ji Ying instinctively pulled at the corners of his lips into a smile, but the expression hovered weightlessly on his face, never sinking deeper. After all, he had already come to a clear conclusion about the relationship between himself and Chu Huaicun. Slowly, he released his fingers, though not without muttering a threat under his breath:

“Liang Kechun, is it? Prime Minister, do pass along a message for me: I’ll remember this man.”

Ji Ying had always been vengeful and rarely tolerant. Chu Huaicun glanced at him calmly. The touch of being tightly held still lingered on his fingers. In a quiet, emotionless tone, he said, “Very well. But you also know—he is essentially under my banner now—”

“Isn’t that not official yet?” Ji Ying shot back aggressively. “So I can’t touch him?”

Chu Huaicun paused for a moment and decided he couldn’t let Ji Ying’s nonsense go unchecked. His mind remained clear. Ji Ying didn’t have the charm or means to truly sway people’s hearts—not enough to make Chu Huaicun abandon his sense of faction or political vision. They were merely personally close, but nothing beyond that had ever been solidified. On matters like this, the Prime Minister would never back down.

“Lord Ji,” Chu Huaicun said with unyielding authority, his voice as cold and sharp as a sword’s edge, “watch your words.”

Dressed in white like snow, he had the air of an immortal from beyond the mortal world. The guards behind him dared not breathe loudly. This Prime Minister had not reached his position through gentleness. The sword he carried had severed the heads of foreign enemies and executed traitors at home. For someone like him to allow a notorious political lackey to hold his hand openly was already beyond belief.

And now, to threaten someone in front of him?

Even though the guards were loyal to their master to the core, the disrespect Ji Ying had just shown made cold sweat break out down their backs.

Ji Ying, however, was not surprised. Had Chu Huaicun not responded this way, he would have suspected that tonight’s unusually indulgent Prime Minister had been replaced by someone else entirely. Still, this attitude did sober him up a little.

The moonlight over Qingyu Lake was beautiful. So was the man beside him.

But Ji Ying had never truly had the right to walk beside Chu Huaicun. To have had this brief chance was already something. He lowered his eyes slightly to avoid Chu Huaicun’s sharp gaze and said in a low voice:

“If I can’t touch him, so be it. I’m not so petty that I need to pick a fight with some examinee. Prime Minister, until we meet again.”

He changed his tone swiftly, without any loyalty or consistency—not a gentleman, by any means. But it was clear his earlier declaration to deal with Liang Kechun had been far more believable than his current pretense of letting things go. After all, who would believe the shifting words of a petty man? Evil intentions always echoed louder than good ones.

No one—Chu Huaicun believed—would be swayed by a man like that. But he also suspected… he might be one of those “someones” now.

“Until we meet again,” he replied, watching Ji Ying’s retreating back pause for just a second.

He would eventually understand what kind of person Ji Ying truly was.

When Chu Huaicun met Liang Kechun, the latter was pacing anxiously back and forth across the stone-paved path. Tear stains still marked his face, as though he truly had wept, but his expression now was filled with nervousness and apprehension. It wasn’t until he heard approaching footsteps that he steadied himself and turned to greet the Prime Minister with a respectful bow.

He had just barely avoided becoming the number one thorn in the side of the court’s most notorious villain. Perhaps he didn’t know that—or perhaps he knew all too well.

“Prime Minister Chu,” he said with respectful urgency, “forgive me for requesting an audience so abruptly. It’s just that I really…”

But when he actually faced Chu Huaicun, the words caught in his throat.

Chu Huaicun stood there in robes made of the finest white silk, as pure as pear blossoms. The subtle patterns on the fabric had likely cost many sleepless nights from master embroiderers. In front of such a man, to be stared at with eyes as cold as snow and ice, made one feel naturally inferior and speechless.

“Young Master Liang,” Chu Huaicun said with a rare trace of gentleness in his tone, “there’s no need to be nervous.”

This attitude was not because Liang Kechun received special treatment, nor a whim. Traditionally, a powerful court official who went against the expectations of the masses—such as Chu Huaicun—would be extra wary of “clean stream” scholars. But Chu Huaicun had always shown a peculiar tolerance toward such bookish young men.

Paradoxically, Liang Kechun became even more tense. Being treated with such courtesy by the Prime Minister should’ve been a mark of honor.

He looked to the left—only the lake stretched out into the sky. He looked to the right—a lone silver moon hung in the night. There was nothing else. Lastly, he looked down at himself and realized he had so much to say, but no courage to say it.

His knees felt weak. He bent slightly—and then came the sound: thud.

He had knelt before the Prime Minister.

Chu Huaicun’s expression remained unchanged. He silently examined this scholar, clearly burdened with secrets, yet too timid to voice them. His cool demeanor, to the eyes of others, likely gave off a different impression entirely.

With what little composure he had left, Liang Kechun thought to himself: he was already kneeling—what more did he have to lose?

He lifted his eyes to look at Chu Huaicun’s face, then followed his shadow to the Qingyu Lake behind him. An overwhelming sorrow surged in his chest, and the next words flowed out with his tears:

“I wouldn’t dare lie,” he choked out, coughing. “I know the Prime Minister is investigating what happened all those years ago. The downfall of the Lin family overnight… I happen to know something about it. I must… I must tell you the truth.”

Chu Huaicun’s pupils contracted slightly, his gaze flashing like lightning as it locked onto Liang Kechun.

Seeing the change in his expression, Liang Kechun finally felt at ease. He knew that now, at last, the doubts he had hidden for so long would be spoken aloud and take shape in the world again. His heart ached, but he still believed his backbone was intact. He shouldn’t have knelt so easily. He groped at the ground, trying to stand up—but his eyes glazed over, fixed on the Qingyu Lake.

Chu Huaicun saw the crisscrossing tear stains on his face and paused. Then he reached out a hand to help him.

But that gesture shattered Liang Kechun’s composure. Sorrow overtook him. He turned his tearful eyes toward the offered hand, his lips trembling uncontrollably, and finally let out a long, drawn-out wail.

Instead of taking the hand and rising, he knelt even more solemnly—not toward Chu Huaicun, but toward Qingyu Lake.

He sobbed uncontrollably at the water before him:

“Teacher… Teacher,” he cried, “I finally dared come see you here. It’s been ten years. Even in the afterlife, I need to give you an explanation. Prime Minister Chu, look at this lake—the remains of the famed court historian and scholar Wei Gong likely rest now in the bellies of Qingyu fish!”

Listening to Liang Kechun cry and babble all that out, Chu Huaicun finally pieced together the outline of the matter.

Though Liang Kechun was participating in this spring’s imperial exams, this was not his first attempt. Compared to the many young, ambitious scholars, he was older and more reserved. Especially when it came to questions of scholarly lineage—where others proudly cited mentors—Liang Kechun claimed no affiliation, relying solely on his own talent to gain some pitiful standing.

But if one traced back more than ten years, he had once been a student of the renowned scholar and imperial historian Wei Gong.

To call him a student was perhaps too generous—at best, he was a disciple in a public lecture hall. Liang Kechun had come from poverty. Though he had loved learning since childhood, he had never truly had the means to pursue it. It was only because Wei Gong had been generous, routinely selecting impoverished students to sponsor, that Liang Kechun had received an opportunity.

But scholarship was always a personal matter. Most sponsored students failed to achieve much, and many dropped out halfway.

Liang Kechun, however, was diligent and clever. Seeing his potential, Wei Gong took him in as a close student and taught him everything. Yet, out of concern that others would criticize this patronage, Wei Gong never publicly acknowledged this special relationship.

And so, after his death, when the tree fell, the monkeys scattered—no one ever associated Liang Kechun’s name with him again.

“I remember,” Liang Kechun said, still weeping, as Chu Huaicun finally helped him to his feet. Chu sighed softly, feeling the scholar’s muddy hand staining his fine robes. In truth, the man wasn’t all that courteous:

“Everyone says Master Wei died of old age, and there’s even a tomb for him outside the city. But you’re saying—that’s an empty tomb, and what happened back then was something else entirely… something you happen to know?”

“Exactly.”

Liang Kecun had also calmed down by now. Normally shy and reserved, none of his classmates would have believed that he’d just broken down in front of the powerful and intimidating Chu Huaicun. He quickly tidied his appearance, then glanced at the dirt on Chu Huaicun’s snowy white sleeve with a look of utter guilt.

“It’s nothing,” Chu Huaicun said coolly, glancing down at his robe. Indeed, even with grimy handprints on his sleeve, he still looked aloof and ethereal, as sharp as a sword.

“Alright…” Liang Kecun blinked hard. “I know about this matter because Master Wei once asked me to meet him by Qingyu Lake for a lesson. As Your Excellency knows, this area is full of winding paths and secluded spots where people rarely cross paths. The event happened… on the very night before my teacher was said to have ‘died of natural causes.’”

“You saw it?” Chu Huaicun softened his tone.

But instead of answering, Liang Kecun abruptly changed the subject. He looked steadily at Chu Huaicun and bowed again:

“Your Excellency might not understand why I’m telling you all this. I suppose I should start with this: my teacher’s death is closely linked to the fall of the Lin family. Around that time, I remember Master Wei mentioned something during our lessons—he said something about the Lin family that was troubling his conscience. He’d been hesitating.”

“Hesitating about what?”

“I don’t know,” Liang Kecun said. “Soon after, Master just… vanished. He died too cleanly, as if no one even cared whether there was a body in the coffin. I remember during the burial, I peeked from the crowd—the coffin lid was barely cracked open, and inside was only white paper money. Later, the Wei family withdrew from the capital entirely, didn’t they?”

“You saw it.” Chu Huaicun said with certainty, his voice tinged with pity.

“I don’t know,” Liang Kecun said again.

His eyes were locked on the surface of the lake. “I only saw someone being dragged into the water from afar. I didn’t know who it was. I waited until midnight, but not even the insects were chirping, and Master never came. Then I went home. I still remember that person seemed to be wearing clothes the same color as the lake. Master always wore that green robe. I don’t know if that’s what he was wearing when he ‘died peacefully.’”

Chu Huaicun gave him a moment.

Then he asked, “You believe this has something to do with… what Master Wei said about the Lin family?”

“What are the odds it doesn’t?” Liang Kecun murmured. “I only told my mother about this. We moved south to avoid trouble, first to Jiangnan, then to Guanzhong. But I came back to the capital after all. I never dared tell anyone else, Your Excellency.”

His voice was very soft, as though even now he feared disturbing the soul lurking beneath the lake. Chu Huaicun understood.

“If a great scholar like Master Wei could disappear without a trace, then the ones behind it must be so powerful that even their names cannot be spoken. Moreover, the Wei family showed no sign of distress from beginning to end.”

“Were they silenced—or did they already know?”

Thinking too deeply about this was chilling. Chu Huaicun knew he had just brushed against the cold, hidden edge of the truth from years ago. He turned back to Liang Kecun, carefully steadying his voice despite the turmoil inside. After collecting himself quickly, he asked:

“Are you the only one who knows about this? Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“My lips are sealed,” Liang Kecun said with a bitter smile. “I was just a boy of fifteen or sixteen back then—what could I have known? I had nothing to do with court affairs. Master Wei just needed someone to talk to. I know his character—he would never have told others about it. Please, Your Excellency, trust my character too.”

Chu Huaicun looked at him and gave a slight nod.

Liang Kecun looked back at him for a while, then finally gave up and fidgeted with the corner of his robe.

“What about Your Excellency? Why are you investigating this matter from so long ago? I… If I hadn’t overheard something while gathering information, I never would’ve believed it. Forgive me. I just didn’t know if I could trust you.”

“Please believe me,” Chu Huaicun said solemnly. “More than anyone, I need the truth from back then to come to light.”

His words rang with gravity, and even the sword at his waist seemed to hum, responding to his resolve. At this moment, it felt as if old friends and new allies were gathering around him again. Behind him, the lake flowed solemnly, as if playing a mournful requiem. Liang Kecun realized that the man standing before him was no longer just the cold and ruthless chancellor—his eyes shimmered faintly like a mirror reflecting the past.

“Master Liang,” Chu Huaicun said earnestly, “I need your help.”

Liang Kecun finally turned away from the lake’s reflection with a sigh, though his lips still curled faintly upward. He, too, was holding back many emotions—but at last, they dissolved into a single long sigh:

“I’m willing to serve Your Excellency, even as a foot soldier.”

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out several tattered scraps of paper, covered in strange symbols drawn in charcoal. Finally, Liang Kecun revealed the full truth.

That night, he hadn’t left immediately.

After the group of men left, Liang Kecun had crawled out of the weeds, carefully following the messy footprints to the lake’s edge. A crow cawed overhead, startling him into stillness, afraid those men would return. But he held firm and did not run away.

He bent down and looked into the lake’s emerald surface.

The water was calm and deep, without a single ripple.

He saw nothing. Had someone really been thrown in? Or had he imagined it all? Standing on the muddy bank, he felt a pang of absurdity. His voice trembled as he whispered, “Master Wei,” but the words vanished into the night, unheard.

He gripped his stiff, cold fingers, determined to forget everything.

But then he noticed something strange.

Among the tangled footprints in the wet soil, there were long drag marks—like someone had clawed at the sand with their fingers, trying not to be pulled into the water. Liang Kecun walked closer in silence and began to cry again.

He was miraculously lucky. Those grave-robbers never returned.

But as he cried, he noticed something else.

The drag marks had a pattern—irregular, yes, but familiar. They reminded him of what Master Wei once taught him about ancient divination: the cracks on turtle shells, the notches on animal bones, the symbols of hexagrams. He opened his eyes wide and tried to read what was left behind—it formed a direction.

A grieving student wandered blindly through the night.

Following the direction indicated, he somehow returned to the fish-shaped stone where he and his teacher once met. He turned in confusion, the surrounding woods casting countless tiny shadows that fractured his own silhouette into a thousand fragments. He exhaled a shaky breath and tried to convince himself it had all been a coincidence. He even felt a sliver of rare relief.

That wasn’t a divination—it was just meaningless scratches.

That person who fell into the water wasn’t his teacher. It had to be someone else.

He decided to leave. But his gaze couldn’t help but follow the shadows on the ground. The fish-shaped stone had a long, narrow tail. His eyes followed it a few steps before he realized something.

The soil was freshly turned. Recently dug. Hidden in the shadow of the fish’s tail.

“This,” Liang Kecun said, “is what I found. It’s not the original, but it’s exact. I memorized everything and copied it down. I don’t understand the message Master left, so I buried it in my heart.”

Chu Huaicun took the scraps from him.

They looked like scribbles, hurriedly drawn symbols—some kind of writing, warped and cramped, hard to decipher. But one thing was certain: it was a lock, cold and silent, guarding the truth. Chu Huaicun knew he would unlock it.

“I understand,” he said seriously, nodding to Liang Kecun. “Take care, Young Master Liang. I may still need your help again.”

Liang Kecun, having fulfilled his duty, seemed to relax from his shoulders down. He finally raised his face to the silver moonlight, letting it brighten his features. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and gave a bitter smile.

“A promise from Your Excellency—I will treasure it,” he said. “But I have no more regrets now. You needn’t worry for me. I found you today without knowing Lord Ji Ying was also present. I suppose from now on, he’ll be keeping a close eye on me.”

The only person in the court who could truly oppose Prime Minister Chu was Ji Ying.

What’s more, he had just publicly embarrassed Qin Sangzhi in front of everyone. Though there were doubts about the incident, it clearly showed how determined Ji Ying was to target them—he carried malicious intent and was always ready to stir up trouble. Liang Kechun knew he had stepped into the chaotic world of court politics, become a subordinate under Chu Huaicun’s command, and at the same time, made enemies.

He closed his eyes.

So he didn’t see the brief pause in Chu Huaicun’s expression, nor the faint trace of helplessness that followed.

By the end of the month, the military’s grain case finally came to a close.

No one walked away satisfied. Chu Huaicun voluntarily accepted responsibility and, at least in name, relinquished absolute control over the military. However, the Crown Prince’s maternal family continued to command major regional forces—everyone knew full well that it was still Chu Huaicun pulling the strings behind the scenes. Ji Ying had exposed the account book issue and nearly succeeded in taking him down, but Chu Huaicun acted too swiftly, preventing Ji Ying from pinning the blame entirely on the Crown Prince’s uncle.

Fortunately, the account book, as a deadly weapon, managed to bring down the Third Prince, who was pushed out and offered as a sacrificial lamb. This was a painful and significant loss for the Crown Prince’s faction.

The results of the spring civil service exam were finally released.

Most of the attendees at the Qushui Gathering made the list. The Prime Minister’s residence had long received early word from the palace. Chu Huaicun summoned Liang Kechun to speak with him and offered congratulations—he had placed seventh. Liang Kechun was no longer the same man as before; he had now gained the backing of the Prime Minister himself. Before the list was posted, someone even approached Chu Huaicun to ask whether they should move Liang Kechun up the rankings.

Liang Kechun declined, and Chu Huaicun didn’t press the matter.

The General of the Northern Command, meanwhile, was now tightly controlled by Chu Huaicun’s schedule and could only give infrequent updates. One day he’d be dining with the deposed Crown Prince, the next day teaching martial arts to the Seventh Prince, and then off to attend a banquet at the Eastern Palace. He was clearly thriving.

Although no one truly regarded him as a trusted confidant, his personality made it easy for him to gather all sorts of information.

As for Ji Ying—

Since that parting at Qingyu Lake, they’d only met a few times. Initially, during the unraveling of the “half-face makeup” incident, Chu Huaicun still offered him comfort during moments of pain—small gestures of tenderness when Ji Ying clutched him. But as the pain diminished, their interactions became less frequent. Chu Huaicun believed that even without his help, Ji Ying was likely capable of handling things on his own.

But he didn’t follow through on that thought.

Instead, he took the opportunity to solve another problem. Ji Ying was being watched and manipulated, his movements observed by countless eyes. He couldn’t keep sneaking off to the gambling house—it would raise suspicion. At first, Mr. Fang had reluctantly played the role of the price-gouging physician, but even he eventually thought it too conspicuous and refused to continue.

“I still have a reputation to uphold,” the old man huffed. “How am I supposed to do business otherwise?”

Of course, Ji Ying could come directly to Chu Huaicun. But if he came too often, it would seem like he was breaking free from control. So Chu Huaicun struck a deal with Mr. Fang to hold all future medical consultations at Ji Ying’s residence—with the Prime Minister himself making bold visits.

The protagonist of this plan, however, only learned about it on the day it happened.

After all, Chu Huaicun intended to gather intelligence during his visit.

As the Emperor’s notoriously ruthless lapdog, Ji Ying’s residence had been deliberately placed just beyond the palace wall, in a manor with discreet access to one of the side gates of the imperial city. This allowed the Emperor to summon him at any time—or for Ji Ying himself to report directly to the palace. When Chu Huaicun arrived at his gate, he noticed that despite Ji Ying’s undeniable authority, not even a name plaque had been hung above the door.

It couldn’t be said the place was desolate. Petitioners lining up to ask Ji Ying for favors stretched to the city’s outskirts. But none of them could appear in public—so when Prime Minister Chu arrived like a cutting wind, the gatekeeper stammered and had no idea what to say.

“Go get your master,” Chu Huaicun said curtly, clearly not someone to trifle with.

He had come to make an enemy—come to confront him directly. The gatekeeper wanted to cry—not because he feared Chu Huaicun, but because if his moody master saw him acting like a fool, he might not survive the day.

“I-I’ll go report to him,” he stuttered.

Chu Huaicun, surprisingly patient, stood at the door and waited.

As he waited, he cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Fang, who was disguised as his attendant. Over the years, Mr. Fang had roamed the world and turned himself into a seasoned trickster. Aside from his age, there was no trace of the bearded old man beneath the disguise. He also took the opportunity to examine this odd and secretive residence of Ji Ying’s.

Finally, its master came out to receive them.