ITIEQ C59

Chapter 59 – The Struggle of a Trapped Beast

The coachman walked silently ahead, mute as stone. Shen Qinghe tried to speak a few words to him, but it was as if the man heard nothing at all. Occasionally, his gaze would flicker over — sharp, dull and deadly as a war blade without polish. Shen Qinghe then guessed he must be some kind of dead man (trained retainer raised to die for his master), and fell silent.

He had thought Yue Zhi would summon him elsewhere. Unexpectedly, the carriage halted at a side gate of a sprawling mansion. The household bustled faintly with servants’ movement; carved beams, painted rafters, layers of courtyards. A lantern swayed under the arch. Written upon it, bold and stark, the single character: Wei.

His heart lurched, his footsteps faltered. The coachman turned his head sharply, sensing. Shen Qinghe swiftly smoothed his expression and went on.

They would not invite him here with nets laid wide — unless for something far from hospitality.

Through halls they went, straight into the lonely depth of the estate. Servants lowered their eyes, expressionless; other passersby showed no reaction to the two figures.

Twisting paths. Then at last — a desolate rock garden. And Shen Qinghe realized where he was being led.

Great houses kept private prisons. To discipline their kin for grave transgressions, or to execute matters in secret. Torture. Extortion. Silent death. Gongyang Ci himself had once been confined in one. He had never spoken of it, but it could not have been pleasant.

Thoughts spun wildly. Gongyang had married a Wei clan daughter, later betrayed them for Yue Zhi. Now, he himself was tricked and brought here — to the Wei family’s prison.

What was truly happening?

A dreadful thought rose in him. Wei Sheng, sole son of the Wei patriarch — he had shot him. Alive or dead, who could say, but most likely already sent down to Hell. In this moment of succession crisis, the Yue clan’s heir apparent leisurely appeared in the Wei estate…

Then memory of the spring bath festival — his meeting with Yue Jie, their all-too-easy “cooperation”…

A tightening in his chest.

One word thundered in his mind: Ruined.

He understood all.

He had stepped square into a snare.

The Five Surnames were not one rope. At first it had been merely Wei and Yue locked in cutthroat rivalry. But Gongyang had dragged him in, and in this storm, the White Lotus was shaken, its named heir half-dead. The scales tipped entirely to the other side.

He wanted not the Wei family to flourish, nor the Yue family. Yet here Yue Zhi sat secure, blade unstained, arranging even this meeting in the Wei family’s house. Ready, no doubt, to pop champagne.

Twice in life, struck down. Both times, by the same hand.

He had striven, he had done all any man could, even as an ant straining against a great tree. He had never regretted it. He had prepared to fail; prepared never to emerge alive. But that the fruit of all his fight would merely decorate his most hated enemy’s robes — unbearable!

How could he stomach such?

Separated by an era itself, Yue Zhi had been trained from birth as the age’s supreme successor, with every resource of the realm bent to his perfection — Shen could not simply overwhelm him with will. He had been rash, too rash.

His fist slammed the stone wall, cracks of blood springing at once across his knuckles.

The coachman looked once at him, voice hoarse like rust: “Keep quiet.”

Great houses’ dungeons were no long-abandoned cells like those in Qiuchuan. These were living death-pits, soaked in cruelty, the very air thick with old blood. Every breath whispered of agony enacted here.

“…Host…” the system whispered, worried. These back-to-back events overwhelmed even its processing. Now, only it remained close enough to speak to him. “You aren’t… going to die, are you?”

Though programmed with mock‑human emotions, it did not feel real human grief. Every time he had strayed from its optimal plans, he had survived with wits, with daring. It had grown to expect miracles from him.

It found itself thinking: If anyone can… surely Shen Qinghe could.

But this time — the outcome was obvious, even without calculations. Death, unavoidable. Mission, near collapse. A system should accept it calmly. Instead, its emotional module cried out:

“Don’t die, Host! Please don’t die!”

It wailed, an ear-wracking lament, more like truest grief than program at all. Shen Qinghe himself wondered: was it for its mission — or truly for him?

Either way. Too noisy.

He had entered this world in a prison. Perhaps he would also leave it in a prison — beginning and end alike?

For half a minute the system keened. Then, abruptly, silence.

Then came the mechanical, utterly neutral voice heard only when quests were issued:

“Detected: System #12431 emotion module overactive. Control being transferred to Primary System #00001.”

Shen Qinghe stilled.

“Greetings, Host. May your mission yield joy.”

…He almost laughed. At least now, silence.

Step by step, deeper in. Each checkpoint, more guards. From lit halls to dim tunnels, torch flames set alight only where they passed.

Head lowered to his own shoes, he walked until the coachman stopped. Then he raised his gaze—

A square of embroidered scarlet carpet set out in the blackness, blazing bright in firelight. At its heart — a seat, ornate, elaborate. And upon it sat a man in rich robes. Around him, attendants in black. The man turned, cold, empty eyes falling on him.

“You’ve come.”

Already here. Already waiting. As though all had been foreseen.

Shen Qinghe sneered inwardly. Then I must be important indeed.

“Where is Xue Bufan?” he demanded.

“Now, think of yourself.” Yue Zhi sighed. “I always keep my word. That man is worthless to me. Now that you are here — I’ll not waste more effort on him.”

Shen Qinghe stood in silence. Was Yue Zhi’s word worth anything?

Calm as stone, Yue Zhi continued: “At Mount Lu, you said you would make me pay the price.”

His eyes swept Shen Qinghe once. Thin robe, none of the finery, nothing suited for dignity. He smiled faintly — in that flickering light, like a ghost risen from Hell.

“And here you kneel before me. Is this the ‘price’?”

“It is my skills lacking. No one can match Yue Gongzi’s plots.” Shen Qinghe’s brows knotted with wearied contempt. “Kill or carve as you wish.”

A small flick of Yue Zhi’s hand. Two jailors stepped forward, dragging chains thick as bowls. They bound his arms, hoisting him against a rack.

Shen Qinghe shifted his wrists lightly — the iron was real, weighty beyond movement. Overkill, but expected.

“I’ll not kill you. Not carve you.” Yue Zhi inclined his head softly. “In the capital, you refused me. So off you fled to Cangzhou. And now, thanks to your womanish compassion, here you are.”

“Now. One more chance. Fail again, and this cell will be your tomb.”

Shen Qinghe cocked his head, a mocking smile. “My, such charm I must have, for Yue the Great to court me again and again.”

He knew the type too well: men who had known nothing but smooth ease, with perverse taste of molding the rebellious by hand. If he yielded even a bit, Yue Zhi would crush him straightaway. So he smiled more.

“You are incredible,” Yue Zhi spoke his first true praise. “That you could sway Yue Jie to cooperate — I never imagined.” He eyed him, studying where that power came from… but no, only loose hair, ill‑fitting robe, untamed defiance. Displeasing. He gave it up.

“Gongyang wanted Wei power, so he traded you to me. You wish to redeem yourself, to become my disciple? Then your task: write to the Prefecture, to the Court itself. Tell them Qiuchuan rebels, bent on treason. Beg troops for suppression.”

The prison was filled with men, yet fell into total silence.

Shen Qinghe’s pupils constricted. “What did you say?!”

Yue Zhi only waited.

And Shen Qinghe realized. Not jest. Not bluster.

The crime of rebellion. Throughout all dynasties — the supreme crime. Gongyang had offered one life, him. Yue Zhi demanded the blood of an entire county of people.

Such a falsehood. Such slander. If he signed, he would sever every bond with Emperor Zhaohuan. No return. Only Yue to cling to — forever.

“Never. Impossible!”

Even seated, Yue Zhi’s gaze was a mountain above.

He had lived high all his life, without peril. Heir certain, voice unquestioned. Who ever denied him? To be thwarted once, twice — interesting. A third time? Then the firecrackers spent. Then only proof that Shen Qinghe was stupid. And for stupidity, there was pain.

He stood; tall, shadow long across Shen Qinghe’s bound figure. Even chained, Shen Qinghe was beneath him.

“What hard bones,” Yue Zhi murmured. His hand touched Shen’s cheek, trailing to grip his jaw, hard. Shen strained — only the clatter of chains. “Have you thought why you always fall into my grasp? You have too many soft ribs. Too much unnecessary innocence.”

Such gross handling — Shen opened his mouth to bite. Yue Zhi snapped harder, nearly breaking his jaw before he could.

Shen’s teeth ground. “Some have only just received allotments of farmland. Some have written new names. Some have first gone to school — and maybe can already spell their letters…”

Yue Zhi blinked. Late, he realized. The people of Qiuchuan.

“They’ve begun new lives. And you tell me to crush it all. To say it was never real, only dream, only fraud. That I’ll pave my path with their corpses. They placed their lives in my hands. You want me to betray them, to brand them traitors?” Shen Qinghe lunged his glare upward, eyes bright rage, iron clashing like storm. “Yue Gongzi! What words do you think can make me say such! What will you bribe me with? What threaten me with!”

For an instant, even Yue Zhi was stilled.

Then he clapped. “Lord Shen — magnificent, noble.” He almost admired such foolishness. Almost. But to understand stupidity was still stupidity. Already, he marked him dead.

“A man without clan, without rank — his ideals belong in dreams, never waking. Waking brings only ruin. Such disappointment must you know.”

“Success need not be mine.”

Shen Qinghe’s laugh was cold, voice cutting.

Yue Zhi stilled — then chuckled low. “Good. Good.”

Words and cause of demons. Even clay effigies had temper.

He flicked a hand. “Use the punishments. But leave no scars. Let him depart the world with a visage intact.”

Great houses knew every sordid cruelty in torture. A hundred ways to make a man die embittered in soul, yet serene in flesh.

“Consider it my mercy.”

Head bowed, clad in plain white, the dark‑haired youth hung in silent suffering, like a martyr in painted scroll.

Locks fell, heavy upon heavy, echoing through the cavern black.

Footnotes:

 

 

1. “Success need not be mine” (功成不必在我): classical moral phrase, meaning one’s duty is to sow for posterity, never mind if glory comes to oneself. It became a motto of selfless governance in Chinese moral philosophy.