74. The mournful song has yet to honor the valiant warrior.

Xu Guiyi did not avoid or retreat, but spoke directly and plainly: “Uncle Xianqing has dealt with the Crown Prince before; he knows what kind of person he is. At present, our situation is unfavorable, and we still need the Crown Prince’s support.” Wen Zhi was one of their own, so she had no reason to hide anything from him.

Looking into Xu Guiyi’s bright and familiar eyes, Wen Zhi’s mind grew all the more clear: “Then, does the Crown Prince... know the truth about your identity?” He still habitually addressed her as “Young Lord.”

Xu Guiyi paused, then shook her head and sighed softly, “He doesn’t know. I never intended to tell him; now is not the time.” What she had to do was far too important—she could not afford a single misstep; she had to be cautious, ever more cautious.

“What exactly happened back then?” Wen Zhi was burdened with too many doubts; he simply could not come to terms with how the Young Lord he once knew had turned out to be a woman—worse, the wife of his enemy’s son.

Xu Guiyi recounted, in brief, the disaster that befell the Pei family years ago, how she faked her death and sought refuge in Lanzhou, and the chance that led her to marry into the Eastern Palace. Wen Zhi’s heart twisted with every turn of her story, feeling that every step was fraught with peril.

“So that’s how it all happened...” Xu Guiyi had only just finished speaking when laughter erupted from the courtyard—the abbot had arrived with the vegetarian meal.

Wen Zhi glanced at Xu Guiyi, nodded, and quickly vaulted out the window, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Meanwhile, an unexpected guest had also arrived at Yonghui Pavilion.

Yan Qiqin turned around, one hand resting on the second-floor railing, the other on his hip, clicking his tongue in admiration: “The view here is truly splendid, far better than at Chenghua Palace.”

Fu Lancheng raised his brows and asked, “Has General Yan been to Chenghua Palace before?”

Yan Qiqin smiled and shrugged, “Had nothing better to do, so I wandered around.” He meant to joke, but seeing Fu Lancheng’s somber expression, he added, “Well, am I wrong? Your imperial father is exactly like the late Emperor Baili He of Daxiang—cold-blooded, indifferent, forever suspicious.”

Completely disillusioned with the emperor, Fu Lancheng could only lower his lashes and remain silent.

“I came today to bid Your Highness farewell. In three days I’ll be heading back. Your father has chosen Prince Zhao and Prince Qi to escort the Da Yue delegation; once we pass Jiayu Pass, I’ll return to Daxiang.” Yan Qiqin’s tone rose and fell, clearly in high spirits.

If Fu Lancheng hadn’t been confined to the Eastern Palace, it would have been his duty as Crown Prince to see off the diplomatic mission, but he no longer cared for such matters.

“Though I failed to achieve my goal this time, I remain deeply grateful to King Mu and General Yan for being willing to wade into these troubled waters.”

Yan Qiqin gave a dismissive laugh and shook his head, “Oh, you people. King Mu, Your Highness, always thanking each other back and forth—quite amusing! None of this is truly your own affair, yet you care more than if it were.”

“...I truly envy General Feihong. She’s been gone for so many years, yet so many people still remember her. Her two decades defending Dayi’s borders were not in vain. Though her death was sudden, it was far better than leaving no trace at all. Sometimes I wonder—who knows when and where I, Yan, will fall? What scene will I leave behind?” By the end, there was a faint bitterness to his tone.

At last, some color returned to Fu Lancheng’s cold face; his eyes lifted slightly, “General Yan, you are a man of Daxiang—your life and death are not for me to decide. But why not say now where you’d like to be buried? If King Mu cannot help you, I’ll make the journey to Daxiang myself to see your last wish fulfilled.”

“Your Highness, you just thanked me a moment ago, and now you’re already talking about my death? That’s hardly fair!” Yan Qiqin was none too pleased.

Fu Lancheng’s eyes widened, silently regretting his hasty words, and hurried to explain, “I mean... in the future...”

Yan Qiqin snorted, lips curled, “By the way, do you still intend to remain Crown Prince? If not, why not come back to Daxiang with me? Rest assured, King Mu has always welcomed you most warmly.”

“Have you been drinking? You’re talking nonsense again.” Fu Lancheng shot him a sidelong glance, cursing as he did so, “Do you really think my two brothers are more suited than I am to be Crown Prince?”

Yan Qiqin tilted his head and seriously considered the question, “Not really. I think your brothers are rather unremarkable—nowhere near as interesting as you. Prince Zhao... he’s dignified, but only fit to be a rich, idle lord. Prince Qi... well, he takes after your father a bit too much, doesn’t he?”

Fu Lancheng brushed his sleeve with disdain, “Perhaps that’s exactly why my father favors Prince Qi—after all, he always used himself as the model in our upbringing.”

Yan Qiqin chuckled, then countered, “Is that so? I rather think His Majesty isn’t all that satisfied with himself.”

Fu Lancheng’s gaze flickered, “It’s human nature—after achieving something, one always thinks they could do better. But talent is finite; no matter how you struggle, this life can only go so far.”

At this, Yan Qiqin wagged a finger, “No, Your Highness, you misunderstand me. What I mean is—if your emperor is not satisfied with himself, how could he truly favor a son so like himself, and even wish to pass the throne to him?”

Fu Lancheng paused—this was a new perspective he had never considered.

Yan Qiqin leaned closer, bracing both hands on the desk, so that he faced Fu Lancheng head-on: “What do you think, Your Highness? Does it make sense?”

Fu Lancheng stilled. Indeed, the emperor had long been wary of the Empress’s Song clan, and equally wary of the Nangong family. Of all his sons, apart from his evident dislike for Fu Lancheng, he treated the others with an even hand, though he showed a slight preference now and then for the Eighth Prince, Fu Xun.

It was true that the emperor did not like Fu Lancheng, but as for how much he liked Prince Qi, there was little evidence of any particular fondness.

“Still, that’s better than me. If I give up the title of Crown Prince, Prince Qi has a strong chance.” Fu Lancheng, once calm, was clear-headed.

Yan Qiqin smiled slyly, “Not necessarily. Prince Wei, Prince Han, Prince Chu, Prince Tang—I’ve met them all at court banquets. They’re still young and could be better nurtured, while Prince Qi’s character is already set—not so easy to change.”

Fu Lancheng tapped his middle finger lightly on the table, deep in thought. After a moment’s silence, he tacitly agreed with Yan Qiqin’s assessment.

“By the way, I hear Zhang Qi has returned to the capital, with someone at his side,” Yan Qiqin said, settling back into his seat, crossing his legs, and eyeing Fu Lancheng with a half-smile.

“Wen Zhi?” Fu Lancheng guessed immediately.

Yan Qiqin was mildly surprised, “Your Highness knew?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Fu Lancheng frowned in response.

“Everyone in Dayi says Your Highness is indifferent to everything,” Yan Qiqin replied with a noncommittal shrug.

Fu Lancheng was speechless. “Why are you investigating Zhang Qi?” Though allied with King Mu, he had no intention of sharing everything with Yan Qiqin—especially not matters concerning Zhang Qi and Wen Zhi.

“Well, the entire Zhang Wei family was just exiled, and now the emperor recalls Zhang Qi—surely there’s something behind it. Naturally, I had to look into it; maybe I’ll uncover a little more.”

“But, as I’m about to leave, I’ll have to entrust Zhang Qi’s affairs to Your Highness,” Yan Qiqin added with breezy ease.

Fu Lancheng rose, preparing to see off the renowned general.

“General Yan, kindly tell King Mu that I am still capable of handling Dayi’s affairs; he need not worry.”

Still smiling, Yan Qiqin clasped his fists and bowed, “Your Highness, I will be sure to convey your words. Farewell—and please, take care of yourself.”

Fu Lancheng returned the gesture, “Safe travels, General Yan. Convey my regards to King Mu.”

A parting bird bears resentment; the passing wild goose brings no letter. The dragon, stranded in shallow waters, is left to the revelry of fish and shrimp.

The headquarters of the Qilin Army.

“Zhang Wei has fallen from power. His Majesty does not trust you in the northern frontier, so he’s transferred you to the capital, right under his nose.” Wen Zhi wore the attire of an ordinary guard, a silver mask covering his face.

Zhang Qi ran his fingers over the newly issued Qilin Army transfer order; his tone was indifferent. “A demotion in disguise. Though I’ve taken Zhang Wei’s place, the four deputy commanders below me all have deep roots at court. To them, I’m just a figurehead, a man summoned back from the frontier.”

Wen Zhi crossed his arms and glanced around, “Still better than being exiled with Zhang Wei. You may be from a collateral branch, but you’re still from one of the three clans—a Zhang.”

Zhang Qi laughed self-mockingly, “The Zhang name—once a badge of honor, now... what remains?”

The Zhang clan of Jingnan was once famed for generations of military men. General Feihong, Pei Xueyao’s mother, was a direct daughter of the Zhangs, so for a long time, the Zhangs, the Pei family of Marquis Wujing, and even the Bai family of Jingnan were all bound together in kinship and fate.

Wen Zhi looked at Zhang Qi, marveling at the gulf that could exist even within a bloodline.

Zhang Wei was mediocre, shallow, cold, selfish, and ungrateful. Even after years of shelter and kindness from the Pei family, he betrayed them at the critical moment, without hesitation.

But Zhang Qi was utterly different. Orphaned young, he grew up alone, enlisting at fourteen and making his mark in the northern army. Discovered as a talent by Pei Xueyao, he rose through the ranks.

Later, when it was learned he was an orphan, she even helped him search for his family—only to find he was, in fact, of the Jingnan Zhangs.

Pei Xueyao was overjoyed, laughing that a flood had swept the Dragon King Temple and found it full of kin.

Thus, Zhang Qi’s bond with Pei Xueyao far surpassed that of mere blood among the Zhangs.

“By the way, the Young Lord wants me to go south to speak with Zhang Wei—there are questions that need answering. Do you have anything you’d like me to say to him?” Wen Zhi asked.

Zhang Qi looked up in puzzlement, “Just questions? The Young Lord doesn’t want to kill him?”

Wen Zhi’s smile was cold and sinister. “Of course she does—I want to kill him especially. But the Young Lord says there’s still a hidden hand behind all this. Zhang Wei cannot die yet.”

Zhang Qi, ever astute, caught the underlying meaning. He paced a few steps, frowning, “If that’s the case, Zhang Wei is still useful to us, but for His Majesty, he’s a liability. And for that hidden hand, might they not... kill Zhang Wei first, and cut off our trail?”

Wen Zhi patted the long sword at his waist, “Hard to say. Zhang Wei has become arrogant from favor, and made many enemies. But our spies say he’s arrived safely in the south, which means someone is indeed protecting him from the shadows.”

Zhang Qi regarded Wen Zhi intently, “Wasn’t it your men?”