A single leaf from the paulownia tree trembled in the wind, scattering heavy raindrops like pearls shaken loose. Ye Changgeng raised his hand to wipe the water from his brow, steadied the sword at his side, and stepped back into the house. What he was about to say was of utmost secrecy—his voice lowered to a whisper, softer than a mosquito's hum, wary of eavesdropping beyond the walls.
On the elmwood table lay writing tools used by Li Ce. Ye Changgeng took up the brush and wrote two characters: "Northwest."
His calligraphy was far from refined—each stroke bore the raw vigor of his character, solid and unpretentious, marked with an innate force.
"I examined the assassin's corpse. Judging from their skin, facial features, and the food in their stomach, I believe they came from the northwest."
Each land breeds its own people. Regional differences in dialect, appearance, even eating habits—all leave traces. Though the Tang Empire was vast and its capital, like Jinzhou, welcomed many outsiders—including foreign-run eateries—once you cut open a man's belly, the truth of his origin could no longer be concealed.
Li Ce was quietly impressed by Ye Changgeng's meticulousness. His eyes, serene, revealed a glimmer of admiration.
Ye Changgeng wrote again: "The Crown Prince."
Rage seared through those two characters, each stroke piercing the page like a drawn blade.
"I questioned Hu Jia about the production, distribution, signing, storage, and maintenance of those weapons. Dali Temple in the capital claims it was a secret decree from the Crown Prince himself—transmitted through Commander Wang Botang to relocate the crossbows. Regardless of the truth, someone here must have assisted. I haven't yet found that person."
Illegally hoarding crossbows was a capital offense, punishable by strangulation. To commit such a crime, every move must be cloaked in absolute secrecy. But how had the crossbows slipped past all the bureaucratic gates of the prefecture and been hidden in the Kingfisher Mountains? That remained a mystery.
Li Ce looked up at the gray, misted sky and said,
"Which means, someone here wields enough power to shroud the sky with one hand, clearing every obstacle for the hidden weapons."
Ye Changgeng nodded.
"That's why I'm investigating the Crown Prince's influence in Jinzhou."
Li Ce stood tall within the room, his sleeves billowing in the wind, then falling still. Though slender, he was not frail—his posture was like a pine withstanding the storm, his gaze bright and unwavering.
He, too, picked up a brush. Striking out the words "Crown Prince," he wrote anew: "Li Chen."
"Li Chen?" Ye Changgeng straightened his back, puzzled. "Because the Prince fell, and Li Chen profited?"
Li Ce's hand hovered over the golden peach at his waist. When speaking with Ye Changgeng, his thoughts often wandered. Though the siblings looked nothing alike, there was in them a shared purity of heart, a fire running through their blood. Their temperaments, too, were strikingly similar.
His longing for Ye Jiao had driven him nearly to obsession.
"Also," Li Ce said with sudden clarity, "the assassins at Kingfisher Mountain weren't just there to kill—they were bait, leading us straight to the mechanical crossbows."
Ye Changgeng opened his mouth, enlightenment dawning.
To search a mountain thoroughly would take days, combing every path. But the assassins fled in one direction, and naturally, they followed—discovering the crossbows within half a day, counting their number, reading their inscriptions, and reporting to the court.
The Emperor then placed the Crown Prince under house arrest, reshuffled the Grand Council, and launched a full investigation.
This wasn't merely an assassination. It was a trap—each move calculated with surgical precision to destroy the Crown Prince.
Ye Changgeng clenched the hilt of his sword so tightly it creaked in protest. His hatred surged like a tide.
"If it's Li Chen—if he's already ruined the Prince—why then did he kill those innocent prisoners?"
Yes. Why? To silence them? Wouldn't that only draw more scrutiny?
Li Ce wrote again: "Puzhou."
He explained patiently,
"Captain Peng Jinrui of the Puzhou garrison lost his only son in that prison. He's since rallied his troops and blocked the banks of the Yellow River. With shared grievances, the people of Big Locust Tree Village and nearby settlements have all gathered to his cause—thousands now."
Ye Changgeng had heard of Puzhou's uprising. While investigating, he hadn't realized the situation had spiraled beyond control. His brow furrowed, his already sharp eyebrows now like blades.
"In that case… we truly cannot leave."
They had always been the kind to charge into danger. And now, standing on the edge of the abyss, they would not retreat.
With Ye Changgeng's findings and Li Ce's analysis, the Jinzhou situation became painfully clear.
Someone under Li Chen's command was aiding the concealment of crossbows, colluding with assassins from the northwest, escalating the incident, and supporting Peng Jinrui's rebellion—perhaps a coup, or perhaps a political threat.
What would commoners know? They were but pawns. Believing they sought justice for loved ones, they had instead become human shields, sacrificial offerings.
Li Ce could not walk away.
Even if those people were foolish, they were still citizens of the Tang Empire—his people to protect.
Ye Changgeng drew a deep breath.
"The key to breaking this trap is to unmask the poisoner. If we speak of Li Chen's allies in Jinzhou, no one fits better than Zheng Feng'an."
Zheng Feng'an, military governor of Hedong Circuit, had married a daughter of the Lu clan—the maternal family of Li Chen.
Li Ce shook his head.
"Not just Zheng Feng'an. No one here can be trusted."
Yet Ye Changgeng's fury brooked no delay. He slammed his blade down, his voice seething with wrath.
"Jiulang, just wait. Whoever it is—I'll find them for you."
With great strides, he departed. The paper with "Northwest," "Li Chen," and "Puzhou" written on it was gathered by Li Ce and thrown into the brazier. Flames licked upward, devouring the words—starting with "Northwest."
Northwest. Li Ce's gaze deepened.
Ye Changgeng had said Li Chen colluded with assassins from the northwest. Wei Wang's influence indeed ran far and wide.
The firelight danced in Li Ce's eyes as he stared at the burning paper. Suddenly, he called out,
"Qingfeng!"
"Your Highness!"
Qingfeng arrived, having been with Lin Jing.
"Go after Physician Ye. Bring him back."
Qingfeng was about to ask more, but Lin Jing had already leapt toward the gate like a startled hare. Stunned, Qingfeng said nothing more, only checked his weapons and vanished after her.
Li Ce paced within the courtyard, then turned in the opposite direction.
Ye Changgeng headed straight for the Jinzhou Prefecture office. He knew a shortcut. If he tied his horse outside the northwest corner wall, he could climb over undetected and take a roundabout path to the prison.
Only three people remained imprisoned there. Ye Changgeng had already interrogated them—warden, jailer, and cook. No matter the torture, they claimed innocence and denied poisoning the food.
This time, Ye Changgeng brought no questions—only a revelation.
"I've been a fool," he sneered, shaking his head. "All along I thought the poison was to silence witnesses. Today I learned from the Prince—it was treason. A crime that dooms nine generations."
All three men, bound to wooden pillars, looked up at once. Their injuries made their gazes lopsided, but Ye Changgeng saw the same thing in each—fear, deeper than he'd ever seen.
To annihilate nine generations meant not just their own deaths, but those of their parents, children, spouses, even distant kin.
To keep silent would no longer preserve their families.
"You didn't know?" Ye Changgeng's tone turned grave.
"Someone here has conspired with the princes of the capital. They seek to plunge Jinzhou into chaos—to seize the throne."
He sighed.
"You are loyal indeed—to trade your family's lives for silence. Is it so you'll be honored in death? Worshipped at some phantom altar?"
The prison fell more silent than ever.
The warden hung limp from the post, his lips cracking as he whispered in despair,
"I—I truly am innocent… falsely accused…"
The cook's eyes bulged. He muttered like a madman,
"Execute nine generations… nine…"
Only the food-runner darted his eyes away, torn between fear and guilt.
And then… silence stretched.