◎Imperial Edict◎

The room was pitch-dark, but the faint scent of still water lingered in the air. Zhou Tan had somehow procured brushes, ink, paper, and an inkstone, arranging Liu Lianxi’s scattered letters neatly on the desk.

He seemed to discern the chronological order of the letters, dipping his brush into the ink and circling two characters first.

“Gongshu.”

“Do you know this surname?” Zhou Tan asked.

“Of course,” Qu You replied. “The Gongshu family traces its origins back to the Spring and Autumn period. Their progenitor, Gongshu Ban, built cloud ladders for the State of Chu and was a master craftsman unparalleled in his time. People praised him, saying he could make bronze speak.”

“Exactly,” Zhou Tan said, circling another word: “Wuchuan.” “The ‘carpenter without beams’ mentioned in the letter refers to a descendant of the Gongshu family—Gongshu Wuchuan—a renowned craftsman in Da Yin. Many famous structures in Biandu were built by him under royal commission.”

With this reminder, Qu You finally recalled the somewhat familiar name. Though her historical knowledge was only cursory—she had focused more on criminal law—Gongshu Wuchuan’s name shone brightly in the annals of Da Yin’s art history. With a little effort, anyone would remember him.

He was a celebrated architect of his time. Among other achievements, Yin Xiangru and Gao Yunyue had often mentioned the Qing Temple on Ting Mountain, which Gongshu Wuchuan had constructed during his service to the imperial court. The temple had endured for centuries, and she had visited the ruins of its Heavenly Gate Pagoda during her studies.

Many of the buildings within the imperial city of Da Yin bore his mark as well. However, Gongshu Wuchuan seemed to have retired from public life in his prime. Not long after completing his final palace project, that very structure was demolished. After leaving Biandu, he disappeared from public view, and with him, the decline of the Gongshu family began. Historians referred to him as the “last swan song” of the Gongshu lineage.

Could the contents of these letters be connected to this legendary craftsman?

Qu You remembered that when she first arrived in this world, aside from her curiosity about the imperial palace, she had also wanted to explore Da Yin’s culture and meet contemporary artists. In such a short time, she had already encountered a poet whose fame spanned millennia and now found herself linked to this renowned architect from the history books.

And here Zhou Tan stood before her… Life’s twists and turns were truly wondrous.

Qu You lowered her gaze, pointing to a name on another sheet of paper. “Then what is the relationship between Gongshu Duan mentioned in the letter and Master Wuchuan? Is he his descendant?”

“He is Wuchuan’s son. The Gongshu family has long resided in the western regions, originally hailing from Ruozhou, where Peng Yue once stayed.” Zhou Tan set down his brush momentarily, pointing to a hastily sketched, blurry insignia drawn from memory by Liu Lianxi. “Miss Liu’s recollection was imprecise, but the shape remains. This is the official seal used by the relay stations between Ruozhou and Biandu. These letters were exchanged between someone in Biandu and Gongshu Duan, Wuchuan’s son, who resides in Ruozhou.”

“Oh,” Qu You exclaimed, suddenly understanding much more. “So the ‘secret behind his father’s death’ and ‘saved by me’ refer to Master Wuchuan? And the renovation of Zhenru Hall… What does all this have to do with you?”

“Zhenru Palace was one of the old halls within the imperial city and also Master Wuchuan’s final work,” Zhou Tan replied without answering directly, his tone indifferent. “Unfortunately, it no longer exists.”

“A palace in the imperial city—how could it vanish?”

“Zhenru Palace was torn down. Do you know what was built on its site afterward?”

“What was it?” Qu You asked, puzzled.

Before her words had even faded, she froze. Zhou Tan let out a wry chuckle, and her astonished gaze fell back to the paper. Her voice trembled slightly as she whispered, “Was it… the Candlelit Pavilion?”

The candle flame flickered as Zhou Tan nodded silently, his eyes lowered.

“Zhenru Palace was originally the residence of Consort Zhao from the previous dynasty. Before her passing, she was posthumously honored as Empress Shunde and moved out of Zhenru Palace, deeming it too noisy near the eastern gate. Afterward, the palace fell into disuse and eventually collapsed, remaining unoccupied ever since.”

“Empress Shunde—was she His Majesty’s birth mother?”

“Yes.”

Empress Shunde Zhao was a concubine of Emperor Xuan, and her father was Zhao Yin, a powerful minister from the former dynasty. When Emperor De ascended the throne, he relied heavily on this maternal grandfather and Gu Zhiyan to cleanse the court. After Empress Shunde and Zhao Yin passed away, only Gu Zhiyan continued to serve as chancellor, aiding Emperor De for many years.

“This person wrote to Gongshu Duan, inviting him to Biandu. They claimed to have saved Master Wuchuan, who later died, and offered to send along his notes.” Qu You scrutinized the letter. “‘Upon seeing Duan’s sketches’—does this refer to the blueprints of Zhenru Palace? If Master Wuchuan oversaw its renovation, wouldn’t that fall within his duties? How could it bring him trouble?”

“Ruozhou…”

Zhou Tan rested his hands on the desk, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably. Qu You could feel him struggling to suppress his voice: “Peng Yue’s ‘accidental’ death on Jinghua Mountain wasn’t as clean as it seemed. If someone were to investigate thoroughly, they’d surely uncover something suspicious. Fu Qingnian fought for Peng Yue’s exile, but once he died, it no longer mattered. When I met him, he dismissed Peng Yue as a useless pawn—but if he was truly useless, why go through the trouble of protecting his life?”

Qu You patted his back gently: “Before Peng Yue died, you asked what he had in his possession. That must have been the leverage Fu Qingnian needed to ensure his survival. As long as Peng Yue lived, that leverage existed, and Fu Qingnian had to protect him out of fear. But once Peng Yue died, the leverage was buried with him—perhaps Fu Qingnian was even relieved. He didn’t pursue the matter further… It must be so.”

After finishing this explanation, she closed her eyes, frowning as she recalled: “Lianxi’s letter also mentioned that the Du father and son, drunk, boasted about holding a powerful minister’s secret—the very letters Lianxi worked so hard to uncover. In that case, the writer of these letters must be the chancellor himself.”

“Hahahaha…” Zhou Tan slammed his fist onto the desk, his laughter cold and mocking. “Fu Qingnian… I should have realized it sooner…”

He stood up, picked up the candle, and walked over to the curio cabinet. Moving a relatively clean vase atop it, Qu You heard the sound of a mechanism. A section of the wall receded, revealing a brocade box in imperial yellow.

Realizing something, she took a few steps toward him but suddenly grew wary as they approached the curio cabinet. She asked, “If someone enters the estate and stands near the bookshelf, could they hear any sounds from within this hidden room?”

Zhou Tan shook his head: “When my teacher had this estate built, and later left it to me, it was specifically designed for emergencies. The gaps in this inner chamber are sealed with molten copper, the ventilation ducts are deeply embedded, and the walls are reinforced. Even if someone pressed their ear against the cracks in the bookshelf, they wouldn’t hear a thing.”

He reached out and carefully retrieved the golden brocade box, holding it almost reverently in his hands before turning to look at her.

Qu You suddenly felt that what Zhou Tan handed over wasn’t just an object—it was his very life and fate. Just as his trembling voice had earlier implied, knowing this would not only drag her into the treacherous political arena but also bind him completely to her.

She watched as he opened the brocade box. Inside was a pale gold scroll tied with silk ribbon, handled with utmost care.

“This is…”

“The late emperor’s edict.”

Zhou Tan’s voice was heavy with emotion.

Six months after Emperor Shang seized power, Zhou Tan escorted Prince Jing’s grandson into the imperial court. There, he presented Emperor Xuan’s last will, legitimizing the prince’s ascension to the throne.

Historians had debated endlessly about this act. After Zhou Tan’s infamous reforms, his reputation plummeted, though prior to becoming chancellor, opinions of him were mixed. His inclusion as the first entry in the Biography of Villains stemmed from historians’ doubts about the authenticity of this edict, branding him guilty of the highest crime—treason.

This centuries-old mystery, which had baffled generations, was now being revealed right before her eyes.

Qu You’s heart trembled violently, and she instinctively took a step back. If Zhou Tan could produce the edict now, then it couldn’t have been forged later to secure Prince Jing’s succession.

Emperor Xuan had truly left behind an edict stating, “The emperor is unfit; abdicate in favor of Prince Jing’s descendant!”

“How did this edict end up in your possession?” Qu You blurted out, nearly biting her tongue. “Was it left by Chancellor Gu?”

Under the flickering candlelight, Zhou Tan’s eyelashes shimmered with a faint golden glow. Each time he lowered his gaze, his long, beautiful lashes became visible, trembling slightly like butterfly antennae swaying in the wind. “Before my teacher left the capital, he entrusted me to retrieve this item from behind the plaque in his old study late at night. He instructed me to safeguard it carefully. Later, I kept wondering… Did my teacher already intend to die? Otherwise, why would he leave such an important object to me?”

His voice grew strained with pain as he closed his eyes tightly: “I thought that when he returned to Yangzhou, I’d find some quiet time at the year’s end to visit him and ask for clarification. But… he didn’t even cross the Qingxi River outside Biandu. His old clothes remain in my estate, yet his coffin contained nothing but a parasol gifted by the people. I wanted to attend his funeral, but they wouldn’t let me enter. With the emperor watching, I couldn’t lose composure or pay respects at his grave. All I could do was kneel here for an entire night—I never understood why my teacher abandoned me.”

Qu You took the brocade box from his hands, resealed the lid, and placed it back into the recess. Turning around, she pulled Zhou Tan back to sit down. Without saying a word, she simply held his hand tightly. Perhaps because of her firm grip, his elegant, slender hand finally warmed slightly.

Suddenly, she realized something.

Zhou Tan’s disgrace among the upright elite and the countless curses he endured weren’t solely because he betrayed his mentor and survived Song Chang’s prison. No—it was because Gu Zhiyan had died.

If Gu Zhiyan had lived, Zhou Tan’s survival could have been explained as an act of compassion from his teacher. Publicly, it might have been framed as a falling-out, but privately, Gu sought to preserve his student’s life. However, Gu left no explanation before following Qu Yuan’s example and drowning himself in the river. In the eyes of the world, this meant Gu believed his student unworthy.

Thus, despairing of a corrupt world, Gu severed all ties.

“I once thought…” Zhou Tan’s voice tightened as he gripped her hand forcefully, seemingly desperate to draw strength to keep going. “After seeing these letters, I suddenly realized…”

His words trailed off, vague and evasive. Qu You didn’t know what “past matters” he referred to and didn’t press him. Patiently, she listened, knowing he would tell her if he wished.

The sorrow in his tone was palpable. Qu You recalled the dim rain on Jinghua Mountain, where this man, delirious with fever, had pushed away the only comfort available to him. The self-loathing in his amber eyes had been sharp and unmistakable.

Now she understood: in his mind, even the person he respected most had abandoned him through death. His reckless behavior in the Ministry of Justice, his self-destructive disregard for his reputation, and his rejection of loved ones’ concern—all of it was self-punishment.

Now, he finally found the courage to hold her hand. Though tears still glistened unshed in his eyes, hope flickered anew, like a dying man clutching the last flame in a dark world.

“I suddenly realized… was I wrong? Did Master Gu really commit suicide?”