BXG - 26

◎ Solitary Duck ◎

Qu You had initially thought these rumors were baseless, but to her surprise, they grew increasingly intense in the following days. The Censorate, which loved criticizing Zhou Tan, initially accused him only of failing to maintain household harmony. Now, they added charges of “lechery” and “oppressing his wife.”

Under mounting pressure, Zhou Tan submitted a petition to recuse himself and stepped down from the Three Departments Trial for the falling case.

People saw only fragments of the truth and assumed no ordinary woman would willingly act as Qu You did. But once linked to Zhou Tan, fresh gossip sprouted like weeds.

Upon closer inspection, Qu You discovered that someone had deliberately spread these rumors among the common folk. She initially suspected the aim was to tarnish Zhou Tan’s reputation, but her investigation led her straight to Boss Ai.

In other words, this message originated from Zhou Tan himself.

The study, though now used for storing documents, still carried the faint metallic scent of old torture tools. When Qu You stormed in, Zhou Tan was reviewing case files, frowning as he circled something in black ink on the page.

“It was me who spread it,” he admitted bluntly. “The Censorate criticizes me daily. A few more accusations make no difference.”

Qu You was baffled. “Why?”

Zhou Tan glanced at her and retrieved a letter from beneath a stack of books, handing it over.

The envelope, thick blue paper embossed with twin carp and lotus patterns, was typical of Northern Yi correspondence.

Written in Zhou Tan’s sharp, angular calligraphy, the characters read: Deed of Divorce.

“This letter bears my private seal. It is valid whenever you choose to use it.” Zhou Tan ground the inkstone without looking at her. “Though scholars praise you, your reputation as a woman has been compromised. Remarrying won’t be easy. This is all I can do. For future marriage prospects, just say you were forced by me…”

“I’ve told you before—I don’t care about reputation.” Qu You interrupted him. “This was my choice. I don’t need you to shoulder this burden.”

“Why don’t you care? At least you have a reputation to lose. Since you have it, keep it. I already bear countless bad names; one more makes no difference.” Zhou Tan set down the inkstone and finally raised his head, offering her a faint smile. “You’re asking me this—are you trying to defend me? Don’t forget, Peng Yue’s case cost Gu Xianghui her life. I don’t care about the women of Fangxin Pavilion. Taking responsibility for their plight earned me criticism, but those with clear eyes know I deserve credit for bringing Peng Yue down.”

He towered over her, forcing her to tilt her head upward to meet his gaze.

“You claim not to care—but only because you’ve never truly lost anything. I truly don’t care about fleeting fame or public opinion. What matters is profit.”

The deep green-robed figure before him stared, her expression shifting from shock to the familiar disappointment he’d come to expect. Without another word, she accepted the divorce deed and left, her sleeves brushing against the air.

Zhou Tan suddenly realized that, at some point, he had grown accustomed to seeing Qu You’s retreating back.

Though clever and cunning, she was also rational and calm. When she didn’t wish to speak to him, she simply turned and walked away, never wasting unnecessary words.

“All this worry for Lord Zhou—it seems wasted. After this case concludes, I’ll grant your wish and seal our divorce.”

Zhou Tan chuckled softly, tasting the faint tang of blood rising in his throat.

Qu You stormed out of the study, anger simmering within her.

She wasn’t sure why she had come today. Everything Zhou Tan did had its reasons; she never needed to worry. Each time, driven by unfounded expectations, she had questioned him, always receiving honest answers—Zhou Tan had never concealed his motives from her.

Yet every time she heard others criticize him, an impulse arose to defend him.

It shouldn’t be this way. It shouldn’t.

When Qu You paused, she found herself standing before the screen in the rear hall of the Ministry of Justice.

Mr. Bai Xue, with meticulous red ink, responded patiently to every comment written on the screen. To complaints about injustice, he wrote, “Even if the world is murky, one must remain pure.” To confessions of a sick mother, he replied, “Pray for your mother, hoping she will soon recover. The gods protect the virtuous.”

Qu You began to understand what the guard had meant when he spoke of “a few words to comfort the heart.” Mr. Bai Xue, despite his brilliance, remained humble. Reading his calm, gentle responses brought a sense of solace.

Hesitating briefly, she picked up a brush and wrote in an obscure corner of the second panel:

“How can one discern truth amid the vast ocean of history?”

Finishing, she couldn’t help but laugh at herself. This eternal conundrum of historiography hardly warranted such a question.

As she straightened to leave, her eyes unexpectedly caught Mr. Bai Xue’s response beneath the poem she had completed earlier.

Her addition:

“A wretched life sees only the sun; returning south to till the fields at dawn.”

His original ending:

“Silent in illness, crying in despair.”

And then, below her line:

“To hear Bai Xue in springtime, no longer smiling at Gusu’s virtue.”

So this was how he had intended it.

Qu You lingered before the screen for a long while.

Mr. Bai Xue, like snow, could comfort others—but why couldn’t he comfort himself?

________________________________________

In the following days, Qu You stayed indoors, partly out of laziness and partly to avoid the incessant gossip that troubled her. She and Zhou Tan lived separately, rarely crossing paths. By day, she slept late, occasionally cooking when inspired or wandering around observing others’ work. Otherwise, she resumed her old habit of writing reading notes.

As Vice Minister of Justice, Zhou Tan shared some professional overlap with her. The Zhou residence housed an extensive library, including legal codes and commentaries from various dynasties. Having studied ancient texts extensively, she found them easy to digest.

While writing her notes, her thoughts often drifted to Zhou Tan—and to broader, more abstract ideas.

Her mentor’s lecture on influential figures of Northern Yi had briefly mentioned Zhou Tan’s political rival, describing Zhou as “politically adept across two dynasties, uninterested in empty fame—a true villain, a true gentleman.” She hadn’t understood the phrase at the time, but now, inexplicably, it began to resonate.

What a complex figure, she mused bitterly. Scholars were taught to evaluate individuals through their actions and context. Yet even living in the same era, she felt unable to grasp his inner thoughts.

Zhou Tan was like a stream shrouded in dense fog—though he laid everything bare before her, the surface remained still, concealing depths she couldn’t fathom.

________________________________________

Several days later, Bai Ying visited during lunch to discuss medicinal recipes. He was planning to start a business selling medicinal cuisine.

After chatting idly, Bai Ying suddenly remembered their unfinished conversation about the mysterious pill: “I forgot to finish telling you last time. That pill you asked me to examine—it’s called ‘Solitary Duck.’ It originates from the Western Shao tribes and flows into Great Yi. I wasn’t certain at first, but after testing, I confirmed it.”

Qu You perked up immediately. “Something from foreign tribes—what does it do?”

“Well,” Bai Ying explained, “in the past, nobles used it to treat coughs and colds. However, it caused significant trouble and has since been banned in Great Yi. Few people know about it now.” Grabbing a sheet of rice paper, he sketched a rough diagram. “Its main components include some common herbs, but there’s also a rare plant from the tribes. I’ve only seen it once before. My master said it’s called…”

Qu You took the drawing and froze as a chill ran down her spine.

She recognized that flower.

Biting the pen cap, Bai Ying finally recalled: “…Afurong.”