ITIEQ C58

Chapter 58 – Back Into the Tiger’s Den

Yue Zhi.

Shen Qinghe had not expected to hear that name here; old wounds were stripped bare, and what seeped out was not pain but an inexhaustible edge. He had been away from the capital for three years; three years ago he had dreamt day and night that the humiliations he had suffered would one day be repaid in full. But after three years, he discovered too many things mattered more, and vengeance had to be set aside for later.

He had cast it behind him—yet someone refused to let go.

Yaoguang had spent only a few days away from the northern front and had even less interest in scholars’ gatherings. The name Yue Zhi he had merely heard in passing. But he did remember Yue Jie—he had just discussed matters with Shen Qinghe not long ago.

“What does that mean, what does he want you to do?” From the few words exchanged, he sensed this was no good thing—very likely an enemy, not a friend.

Shen Qinghe kept a cold face and said nothing. He flipped his wrist and pressed the firearm in his hand into Yaoguang’s palms—the first successful prototype made by the Academy’s weapons manufacture division—which, compared with any cold steel of the day, was a blow from a higher plane, and also the source of his confidence in attending the “Hongmen Banquet.”¹

Killing was easy; what he feared was someone playing dirty so he could not even fire the gun.

The still‑warm barrel landed without warning in his hands; Yaoguang caught it by reflex, looked at Shen Qinghe in confusion—he had never seen his expression so grim.

Having upset his brother, Yaoguang stood up without hesitation. “You aren’t going anywhere.” He thrust out an arm like a gate, glowering at Gongyang Ci with killing intent. “Just with a single tag you want to trick him into going? Who knows if you stole or snatched that from Xue Bufan! Shen Qinghe, don’t fall for him!”

Shen Qinghe snatched the token dangling on Gongyang Ci’s fingertip. Off to the side, Wei Sheng’s cries had dwindled to faint breaths—more out than in. The Wei clan’s honored legitimate heir of Yunzhong County was close to death, and not a single person spared him an extra glance.

Outside, where the restaurant had begun to stir, all was quiet again. None of Wei Sheng’s bodyguards came up. Only the incessant cicadas clamored in the glossy green leaves.

Seeing he could not persuade him, Yaoguang grew anxious. The heavy firearm was awkward to hold or set down; he stood there gripping it, while with his free hand he reached for Shen Qinghe’s arm.

Xue Bufan’s face had been off ever since news came that they would go to Huizhou. After arriving he had been elusive; after taking leave to visit home, he never showed again. One might have thought it normal to spend more time with family after years away… but now, it seemed ominous.

They both understood without saying.

Shen Qinghe’s expression slowly eased, even managing a slight smile for Yaoguang. “Go back first. I’ll rest easier with this in your hands.”

Yaoguang clutched him tighter. “Is this a joke? You hand me this thing and then stay here alone? I won’t sleep for three days and nights! And since he could only produce Xue Bufan’s token to threaten you, I’m sure even Xue Bufan wouldn’t want you to walk into their snare. If you go like this, with no martial training to speak of, it’s a dead end!”

Shen Qinghe forced a smile. He chalked it up to concern clouding judgment and took the words as kindly meant. “Since they won’t release the rabbit before I loose the hawk, I can only go myself. This time it’s Xue Bufan—next time, who knows who it will be. Today sacrifice one, tomorrow another. If I cower and abandon one after another, what have my years of effort been for?”

Yaoguang could not outargue him and nearly slung him over a shoulder to flee. Shen Qinghe saw through the brute‑force solution in his eyes and met his gaze. “They came for me. No one else. I’ll settle it with him.” He patted Yaoguang’s arm in reassurance. “Don’t worry. I’m hard to kill.”

He had donned the wide flowing garments favored among aristocrats to cover the pistol at his waist. Now the disguise was needless—and he had had enough of the floor‑dragging robes. Shen Qinghe lifted his hands and undid them. The cumbersome layers fell away, revealing a silver‑white inner shirt that gathered to a narrow waist and set off the height and definition he’d grown into. When he raised his head, his brows and eyes were a blade that made the heart jolt.

Gongyang Ci considered himself far from ordinary. He had never found a true peer in this world. Yet, seeing Shen Qinghe, a strange feeling arose—always calling up old recollections, though the man himself was utterly different.

Too sharp, too free, too uncontrollable—destined to suffer more in this world. He seemed to understand why Yue Zhi was enraged by Shen but did not simply kill him. With such a man, whether friend or foe, there was endless interest. Their bond gave Gongyang an opening to truly show his face before the topmost houses of Great Yong.

He would admire such a man—never choose to be him.

“Let’s go, Lord Shen.” Gongyang Ci stepped aside to open a path. Yaoguang moved to seize Shen but could not stop his resolve.

“Go back.”

Shen Qinghe gave him a light push, eyes holding some deeper meaning. Yaoguang’s grasping hand closed on air, and he pulled it back, angry and helpless.

…

No bonds on hands or feet; he shared the same carriage with Gongyang Ci. As a captive, it was treatment more than generous.

Shen Qinghe closed his eyes upon boarding, unwilling to spare even a glance for the henchman beside him.

Gongyang Ci chuckled softly and took the childish show of attitude in tolerant stride.

“Strictly speaking, we are not enemies, and I have no intent to harm you. I gave you many chances—truly many. You could have avoided this final trap, but you still stepped in without hesitation.”

“None of your damn business.”

Shen Qinghe was seething.

The rudeness made Gongyang pause. He looked over—the youth in only a single layer of clothing, leaning askew against the carriage wall, chin tilted up, eyes slanted his way. Facing a fated end, yet not a flicker of panic.

“We are neither of lofty birth. The world is ill; the power of ordinary men is a trifle—it cannot be cured.”

Shen Qinghe was sick of it, sick to gagging—what you cannot do, must not do, will not be allowed to do. Up and down, everyone seemed programmed to chant the same instruction: accept your fate, accept your fate, accept your fate!

He was the one shackled; Yue Zhi was targeting him. He needed no two‑bit turncoat to stand here sighing over the world and instructing him how to live.

Face full of impatience, he watched Gongyang as one watches a rebellious child. Gongyang sighed deeply.

“You must have heard my story. Yes—the tale of a fool trying to climb too high, only to break himself bloody.”

Shen Qinghe could not be bothered. Being a provincial governor was already beyond ordinary reach—hardly “broken and bloody.” If this was a pity play, it was a poor one.

Seeing the scorn, Gongyang only smiled. “I do hate the Wei, that is true. But I also love Xiao Rou. The times forbid us to be together; for her, I must climb higher.” He fixed eyes on Shen Qinghe. “Can you understand? A governorship is not enough—far from enough. In the Wei household I saw skies beyond skies. Some men need no official seal and yet can stir the winds.”

Shen Qinghe’s expression flickered.

“So you deliberately sent false word—told Wei Sheng I would cooperate—then told me Wei planned to move against me—to pit us against each other, muddy the waters of Yunzhong, and let your new master reap the fisher’s profit. Three‑way harvest, everyone used clean as a whistle. Well calculated.” He had seen through it all. From the day of their official meeting—perhaps earlier—Gongyang had been arranging this game. For spending so much thought on him, Shen almost felt like applauding.

“From the Wei family’s dog to the Yue family’s dog. Gongyang Ci—you truly were born for a dog’s life.”

So sharp it was no different from cursing him to his face.

“I will make the Wei open their front gate and welcome Xiao Rou back with honor. I will stand at her side, so none will dare raise a word. A dog—then what of it.”

Gongyang’s chest rose and fell twice. He saw Shen as an untempered youth who could not tell rough stone from pearl. As one who had gone before, he admonished in world‑weary kindness, “A weak cur driven out with sticks, and a fierce cur swaggering with backing—the difference no greater than that between dog and man. Just like today: the difference between you and me. What is being a man, if you cannot see tomorrow’s sun? Shen Qinghe, do you regret it?”

“Regret my ass!”

Shen Qinghe finally lost patience. He grabbed Gongyang by the collar, their faces suddenly inches apart. “This excuse, that inevitability—if you choose to be a villain, stop filling your mouth with grievances. Disgusting. If you’d frankly admit you’re selling me out for your own rise, I’d think more of you. You’re no dog; you’re a gutter ghoul. You climb on the piled bones of White Lotus’s thousands and still want a fig leaf to play at being clean. You think this is some ghost story collection I’ll listen to?!”²

You came to look for comfort? I’m not depressed—yet!

This whole chain of nonsense amounted to doing dirty deeds while dreaming of cleansing—needing not only to convince himself, but to drag others into agreement. Therapists bill by the hour; he had neither the duty nor mood to run Gongyang’s spiritual counseling.

Gongyang snorted a low laugh, then reached to press Shen Qinghe’s hand down from his collar. Bloodshot threaded his eyes. “If I don’t climb, others will step on me. The Wei have plenty with hearts blacker than mine. If I didn’t take over the Cangzhou White Lotus, someone else would—and they would not be kinder.”

Shen Qinghe met the faintly obsessive madness in his gaze, then slowly shook his head and released him.

Ridiculous, truly ridiculous.

Pitiful, truly pitiful.

Different paths cannot be planned together; words between mismatched minds are wasted.

A hard fight lay ahead—and he’d let himself be provoked into bickering. Foolish.

He leaned back, hands pillowing his head, eyes on the prayer beads that Gongyang had worn since fetching them from Bao Hua Monastery—muted, dull, now swaying from his earlier agitation. He suddenly recalled how he had once asked why Gongyang had not gone to White Lotus for protection, and whatever answer Gongyang had given—he’d put on a fine act.

“How many wronged souls stain your hands—and still you seek blessings at a Buddhist temple. Aren’t you afraid such things will bring calamity down on your wife?”

Gongyang steadied himself, tucked the sandalwood beads back into his sleeve.

The carriage jolted and slowed to a halt. The driver lifted the curtain—black cloak, bamboo hat, only eyes showing—a man of the jianghu, not a house servant. He called for Shen Qinghe to dismount.

Shen Qinghe lifted his hem and stepped out. At the threshold, a thought struck; he turned back with a vicious smile:

“Is it your wife who longs to be acknowledged by her clan, or are you the one who tasted power and cannot let it go? Only you know. Wear a mask long enough and it won’t come off. Tell a lie often enough—Lord Gongyang, be careful you don’t fool yourself.”

Gongyang saw in his eyes something like pity—something like sorrow. He loathed being pitied. Veins rose in his clenched hand.

He was about to defend himself, but the black‑haired youth in a thin shirt was already far away.

Gongyang told himself they were now mortal enemies—yet Shen Qinghe did not look back once.

Footnotes

1. “Hongmen Banquet” (鴻門宴): An idiom from Chinese history for a banquet that is actually a trap or ambush under the guise of hospitality. 
2. “Liaozhai” (聊斋): Shorthand for “Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio,” a classical collection of ghost and anomaly stories; here used to mock someone dressing up ugliness with fanciful tales.