◎Regret and Guilt◎

The funeral for the young mistress of the Du family had not yet concluded when another tragedy struck. The white mourning hall remained standing for seven days, and Lady Du collapsed in grief within it, only to be carried back to her chambers.

Du Hui’s eyes were bloodshot as he stepped out of the mourning hall, momentarily blinded by the sunlight.

He had many concubines and four or five daughters, but Du Gaojun was his only son—born late in life when he was forty. Naturally, he doted on him excessively.

Little did he know that his indulgence would breed arrogance. Du Gaojun, probing for secrets, uncovered incriminating evidence against Chancellor Fu Qingnian—a discovery his wife later stumbled upon.

This daughter-in-law had been chosen by Du Hui himself for her apparent gentleness and obedience. He never imagined it was all a facade. Liu Lianxi had feigned compliance while meticulously navigating the household, becoming more familiar with the Du estate than even Lady Du herself.

It must have been during one of Du Gaojun’s drunken slips that she discovered the hidden room by the garden pond.

Suspicious, father and son devised a trap to test her. To their astonishment, she indeed uncovered what Du Hui had concealed.

Only then did Du Hui realize how dangerously clever his seemingly ordinary daughter-in-law truly was.

Too clever to live.

The Liu family held low-ranking official status, with no ancestral backing. The death of a daughter would go unavenged—a fact Du Hui had capitalized on when arranging the marriage. His son’s reckless behavior necessitated a spouse from a powerless family; otherwise, trouble would surely follow.

The matter was quietly suppressed without reaching the Ministry of Justice.

That is, until Fu Qingnian approached him with a plan.

Du Hui knew well that since uncovering the secrets of Zhenru Palace years ago, he, Peng Yue, and Fu Qingnian had been bound together. He ascended through Fu Qingnian’s support, while Fu Qingnian kept him silent with leverage. This mutual restraint should have lasted until retirement.

But Du Hui keenly sensed Fu Qingnian’s growing dissatisfaction with Peng Yue.

Fu lacked the confidence for an immediate strike but dared not risk it. If he could silence Peng permanently and bury the evidence, Fu would act.

And if Peng were eliminated, what fate awaited him?

Du Hui believed he could prove more useful. Unlike Peng, he shared old ties with Fu Qingnian and doubted Fu’s ruthlessness.

Thus, he agreed to Fu Qingnian’s scheme against Zhou Tan—a plan that seemed foolproof.

He coerced Zhen’er into cooperation using her parents as leverage. Everything proceeded smoothly. During the morning court session, Zhou Tan was publicly accused, drawing the Emperor’s suspicion.

Yet, Du Hui never anticipated Zhou Tan’s audacity—to kill Du Gaojun within Bianjing itself.

Fu Qingnian expressed endless apologies, promising to avenge Du Gaojun. Though Du Hui gained the Chancellor’s trust, his son’s death rendered such assurances hollow.

Overwhelmed by grief, Du Hui dismissed his attendants and wandered alone to the rear garden.

There, he encountered a cloaked figure.

At first, Du Hui thought it a hallucination, but rubbing his eyes confirmed the figure’s presence. Before he could cry out, the man swiftly approached, seizing his throat and dragging him behind a rockery.

Suppressing shock and fear, Du Hui stammered, “How dare you! I am an imperial official…”

The man leaned closer, his voice coarse and raspy—an intentional disguise.

“Lord Du, do you not wish to know how your son died?”

________________________________________

Xuande Hall was typically unscented, but in recent years, the Emperor had developed a habit of burning incense while reviewing documents alone. A eunuch would place a crystal-carved Bo Shan incense burner beside him, filled with fragrances partially crafted by the Emperor himself.

Song Chang sat at his desk, propping his chin on one hand. Seeing Zhou Tan’s prolonged silence, he suddenly inquired, “Xiao Bai, are you knowledgeable in the art of incense?”

“I obtained a fine piece of sandalwood recently. Its upper notes carry the scent of sandalwood, while its lower notes evoke agarwood… Once, I dismissed this as mere frivolity fit for the inner palace, but upon trying it myself, I found it intriguing. The Censorate used to criticize me often for it, though they’ve grown quiet these past two years. Come to think of it, I first learned this craft from my teacher. The first piece of wood was gifted to me by a childhood friend—both now long gone…”

He didn’t seem to care whether Zhou Tan responded, continuing wistfully, “Seeing your name reminded me of these memories… You’ve knelt here for so long. Have you not yet decided what to say?”

Zhou Tan remained silent, head bowed.

Song Chang opened his eyes, studying him with a faint, resigned smile. “You’ve arranged for your wife to plead your innocence. If I were to order your execution today or allow the Golden Hairpin Guard to close the case, how would the public react? Even if I disregard rumors, I dread the thought of your wife throwing herself at the palace gates, bringing ill omens. You’re a clever man—you spoke boldly when facing death earlier. Why hesitate now, knowing I cannot harm you?”

Though his tone was light and amused, Zhou Tan recognized the Emperor’s simmering anger. Qu You’s public drumming forced Song Chang’s hand—he couldn’t execute Zhou Tan outright, not today. If he wished to kill him, it would have to wait until the Golden Hairpin Guard concluded their investigation.

Initially, when Zhou Tan confided in the Crown Prince, the latter immediately suggested enlisting Qu You to sway public opinion. Zhou Tan had refused—it was too risky. Any misstep could implicate her as well.

He had planned carefully: if successful, Qu You wouldn’t need to intervene; if not, Bai Shating would escort her to Jinling for refuge.

He never expected her to come anyway.

“How coincidental,” Zhou Tan finally spoke, his voice steady. “Your Majesty mentioning my name reminds me of how my mother named me after a piece of sandalwood my father brought home.”

He could no longer afford hesitation. Having reached this point, retreat was impossible.

“Oh?” Song Chang raised an eyebrow, feigning disinterest.

“My father returned from the south with a fine piece of sandalwood. He carved a plaque for my mother and distributed the rest among friends.”

At this, Song Chang slowly lifted his eyelids, straightening his posture as he scrutinized the young minister kneeling before him. “Your father…”

Zhou Tan replied calmly, “Unfortunately, my father passed away early. Since then, I’ve searched far and wide for quality sandalwood to craft hairpins and bracelets—but I’ve never found anything comparable.”

“No, no, that’s not right,” Song Chang frowned deeply, suddenly interjecting, “I reviewed the Ministry of Personnel’s records. Didn’t your father and mother die together? How could you say he passed away early?”

He rose from his desk and approached again: “I remember—you’re from Lin’an, aren’t you?”

“My mother remarried and lived in Lin’an for decades. I suppose that makes me half a native of Lin’an,” Zhou Tan knelt upright, as steadfast as a pine tree enduring winter’s chill. “Your Majesty, over all these years, have you ever regretted anything?”

At this question, Song Chang was shaken to his core. He stepped closer, placing a trembling hand on Zhou Tan’s shoulder. Zhou Tan met his gaze without fear, unflinching.

Song Chang stared into those amber eyes, feeling his own hand quiver. He forced himself to steady it. “I am the Son of Heaven! What could I possibly regret...?”

“But I regret every single day,” Zhou Tan’s voice was firm, his eyes locked onto Song Chang’s. Though this act bordered on disrespect, tears welled up faintly in his eyes. “I regret why, on the day I first came to Bianjing, I didn’t prostrate myself before the current Chancellor, begging him—the murderer of my father—to spare me, to stop pushing me further! My father’s dying wish was for me to remain loyal to the throne, and I’ve never forgotten it for a single day. But how could the same person who refused to spare him then refuse to spare me now?”

Song Chang stumbled back, nearly tripping over the golden steps. He stared at Zhou Tan as if seeing a ghost, finally realizing why the young man had seemed so familiar when they first met in Xuande Hall—Zhou Tan shared the exact same eyes as his father!

Yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

Song Chang looked around in confusion. The hall was empty except for the faint crackling of incense burning in the Bo Shan burner.

“Your Majesty!” Zhou Tan called out, lowering his forehead to the ground, his voice heavy with sorrow. “For all these years since coming to Bianjing, and after being blessed to study under Master Gu, I’ve thought of nothing but becoming Your Majesty’s steadfast arm and the cornerstone of the Song Dynasty! For this, I’ve studied tirelessly, day and night, without a moment’s rest. Even when imprisoned in the dungeon and scorned by the world, I clung to life, determined to serve Your Majesty to the best of my ability, never betraying my father’s final wish!”

“Hah, hah,” Song Chang pointed at him, collapsing weakly onto the steps behind him. His face twisted in an unreadable mixture of emotions, and finally, he spat through gritted teeth, “Do you know the consequences of deceiving the emperor?”

“For three generations, my family has died on the battlefield, and now we can’t even offer sacrifices to our ancestors,” Zhou Tan raised his voice, as if releasing years of pent-up emotion. “That iron decree is still hidden in my residence. If Your Majesty doubts me, retrieve it and verify its authenticity!”

“I am useless, my body frail—I cannot guard the borders like my ancestors. I’ve lived in hiding, clinging to life—but I would die for the state, not for false accusations! Now, cornered and unable to defend myself, I have no choice but to speak these words. Let Your Majesty see my loyalty. If you deem me guilty of deception, take my life. When I meet my parents in the afterlife, I’ll tell them their son did everything he could!”

Song Chang stared at him, his chest heaving, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Qing Gong, Qing Gong!”

He shouted, and the chief eunuch who had just entered rushed forward, startled by the scene but kneeling respectfully without a word. “What are Your Majesty’s orders?”

“Go find Xu Heng. Tell him to take the Golden Hairpin Guard to Lord Zhou’s residence,” Song Chang clutched his chest, issuing the command. “Go quietly; don’t let anyone notice. Tell them… tell them…”

“Knock five times at the side gate and say it’s an envoy from the palace,” Zhou Tan murmured from the ground. “Someone inside will know what Your Majesty seeks and hand it over.”

“Go, go!”

Qing Gong hurried out. Song Chang leaned against his forehead, struggling to rise, finding himself barely able to speak. “You… get up...”

But Zhou Tan refused, remaining fully prostrate on the ground.

The Golden Hairpin Guard acted swiftly. Before leaving, Qu You had specifically instructed them. Within half an hour, Qing Gong returned, carrying a black cloth-wrapped box. He rushed in, kneeling at Song Chang’s feet.

Unwrapping the black cloth, he quickly lowered his head and retreated outside. The sound of armor faded into the distance—he had ordered the guards stationed outside the hall to retreat ten paces.

Beneath the black cloth lay a sandalwood box engraved with intricate designs of Zhuque and Xuanwu. At the sight of it, Song Chang’s face turned ashen, emitting a strained gasp.

He reached out, lifting the lid and throwing it far away with a clang. The flickering candlelight illuminated the clear engraving of the character “Xiao” on the dark iron plate.

Song Chang felt the world spin around him.

His gaze returned to the young minister kneeling before him. Zhou Tan finally lifted his head, his eyes downcast, his sorrowful face streaked with red at the corners, traces of tears lingering.

A long-lost figure emerged from the depths of memory.

“Your Majesty, over all these years… have you ever regretted anything?”