ITIEQ C79

Chapter 79 – Am I Supposed to Be Your Dog?

After Emperor Zhaohuan rose from the banquet and left, the hall was filled with the hum of whispered voices.

The most guarded place under Heaven, and yet assassins slipped inside! True, not even the Emperor’s fingertip had been touched, but such brazen words of rebellion that were shouted were enough to startle gods and ghosts alike.

The court officials withdrew one after another. Only Shen Qinghe remained, straight‑backed and unmoving.

He could already foresee what would follow: today’s incident confined within Anning Hall would spread tomorrow through every alley of the capital. Palace feast, assassination attempt, subversive speech—such things, beloved by idle gossips, would only grow more lurid as they were told!

A lone “rootless assassin” slipping past patrols? Impossible. Someone had set the stage.

The more Shen Qinghe thought it over, the more his heart chilled. Every fissure torn open gave opportunity for unrest to pour in. From here on, how many would ride on this pretext to fan storms?

He had barely glimpsed the Emperor that night, not a word exchanged. In this deepwater capital, he had yet to comprehend the currents—how then could he begin to arrange his designs?

“Shen Qinghe.”

The black‑haired youth looked up. The speaker was Yue Jie, clad too in scarlet robes. The son of the Yue clan regarded him coldly.

“So. You really managed to crawl back.”

“Yes,” Shen Qinghe answered lightly. “A salted fish flipped over. Does that disappoint you, Lord Yue?” His tone was mocking now; there was no longer any need to dissemble. He disliked the Yue family, just as much as they despised him.

“You should never have returned.”

Shen Qinghe leaned back with deliberate insolence. “What has that to do with you?”

A complicated flicker passed through Yue Jie’s eyes. Shen blinked—was that… avoidance?

“Don’t tell me you’ve another trap laid for me? Yue Gongzi, I’ve already been flayed once under your clan’s schemes. Is it necessary to hate me so bitterly?”

“What are you that I should waste hatred?” Yue Jie snapped back, unable to restrain himself.

Since Huizhou, his elder cousin’s manner toward him had turned cold, saying nothing of Shen Qinghe again. Perhaps, in the elder’s heart, this fellow really was no matter at all. Capable, yes, but not enough to shake his designs.

Yue Jie used to believe that within books lay the Way, that comprehending texts would illumine all things. Now, the more he read, the less he understood—his cousin, Shen Qinghe, even his own heart.

“What do you want?” Shen Qinghe demanded. “I’ve bled enough at your Yue clan’s hands, nearly died for it, and now what more?”

Unnerved to find himself treated as the suspicious one, Yue Jie’s expression twisted. He glared and spat a curt “Take care of yourself,” and swept his sleeve as he left.

Utterly bewildering. Shen hadn’t even started a quarrel, yet Yue Jie stormed; if anyone had cause to fling his sleeve, it was himself! Truly, from eldest to youngest, no Yue was worth a copper.

He smirked to himself—then recalled the assassin’s words that night. The satisfaction drained. Restless, he raked his hair. What is the Emperor thinking? What game is this? Do not make me guess again!

That very night, Emperor Zhaohuan proclaimed another day of respite. Never since his succession had he kept holiday so often.

A strange sort of diligence—was even the tireless emperor finally relaxing?

But Shen Qinghe could not sit idle. He sent men to learn the city’s mood. The White Lotus was gone; the Wei clan withered. Without their Springwater Brew, the capital’s young lords no longer feasted nightly as before. Now, with the examinations flourishing, “poetry societies” had become fashion—literary salons in teahouses and gardens, competitions with prizes, seizing all of Capital’s attention.

It was, Shen Qinghe judged, the perfect new avenue into the city’s heart.

Thus he stepped into a busy teahouse, the base of the “Lulan Poetry Society.” Lines of scholars filled its galleries, paintings hung on every wall, serving trays swept past with no time for idle chatter.

Poems, was it? Perfect.

“System, you do it.” No one could out‑compose his system. One tea’s worth of time, one stick of incense—hundreds of poems could pour from its infinite database.

The system groaned: “No. I’m still off.” Since that day of strange malfunction, it had scanned itself unceasingly but found nothing. Reports sent to the primary system all received: operating normally.

Shen, unfazed, drank his tea, pushed the pastries forward. “Finish the task, and they’re yours.”

“…Fine,” the system relented.

A veiled youth stepped forward, head bowed in white scarf. Within quarter‑hour, ten poems complete, drawing shouts of acclaim. Curious friends pressed to know his name. At the crucial moment, Shen Qinghe stepped through the crowd, hand on the youth’s shoulder.

“My nephew. Forgive his intrusion, gentlemen.”

The tall, elegant figure, star‑eyed and poised, struck the room at once.

“A prodigy indeed! Ten poems in a breath—what a talent for the examinations!”

Humble, Shen bowed. “Not worth such praise.” His gentle manner smoothed them like a breeze. Immediately their thoughts turned: such a youth must come from a wealthy, well‑connected family—one might learn some secrets from him.

“What books does he study? What masters? Which Academy?”

Shen sighed with pretense. “Have you heard of Qingbei Young Scholar?”

All shook their heads.

Ah—so the capital had yet to hear. Better still—here was his opening.

“Our boy excelled from childhood because of this book. Page by page, steadily built foundation, ten years in advance—thus today, he writes with ease.”

Adults winced: ten years’ preparation, wasted. Yet Shen pressed on smoothly. “But the best time to plant a tree was ten years ago; the second best is today. With this text as guide, any who wish to learn may still succeed. Even if not you—your sons and grandsons will shine. The examinations must begin from the youngest age.”

Plain as an advertisment, yet not one man of them heard falsehood—only sincerity.

“Where can we find this text?” they demanded eagerly.

Shen’s smile curled. “If you wish to know, travel south three hundred li, to Danyang Commandery. There is your answer.”

Eyes gleamed. To hold such a book—wasn’t that glory itself?

At that moment, a cheerful voice rang from the gallery: “Is that Shen Gongzi below?”

Shen squinted upward. There leaned the second son of the Liu clan of Jiangling, most famed socialite of the capital: Liu Xianglin. No surprise. This mania for poetry‑halls surely had his hand in founding.

Immediately, the crowd bowed to him: President Liu.

“Ah! It is you indeed. I feared it was another great poet. No—it is Shen Gongzi himself.” He beckoned. “Come up at once.”

So Shen ascended to the upper chamber, where but a handful of strangers lounged behind rich screens, bamboo burners glowing silver. Here truly was Liu Xianglin’s circle.

And behind a finely embroidered screen, faint flute notes—clear, elegant. A mysterious player, not given to perform lightly.

Intrigued, Shen waited as the screen lifted—

And his pulse jolted.

Yue Zhi. The honored heir of the Yue clan, flute in hand.

The hall cleared discreetly. Only the two remained.

For a breath, Shen stared. But rage broke quick. “So it is always you. Do you haunt me like a ghost?”

Yue Zhi held calmly. “You may well be the hardest man alive to kill. Sometimes I ask myself—are you some Heaven‑blessed favorite?”

Shen’s lips curled, then he lunged forward, fist crackling against Yue Zhi’s face. The noble staggered, red bright on his cheek—unprecedented. Never had anyone dared strike him!

Shen grinned, breath hot. “A Heavenly favorite gifts you a punch—oughtn’t you receive it properly?”

They struggled, Shen striking, Yue warding with his flute. A clash of flesh on wood, until Yue snared his wrist and pressed him back against the lattice.

“Are you mad?”

Shen’s breathless laugh. At last, the mask cracked.

But Yue Zhi only gazed at him coolly. “Why always claws bared? We are not enemies. Let us talk.”

“Talk? With you?” Shen sneered. “I’ll beat you across the tea‑house floor and onto every wall‑poster in the capital!”

They fought again. Suddenly, Yue Zhi seized his collar, cold hand at his throat. “Our dynasty is spent. No emperor can halt its fall. A new master is needed. I will choose him—and still keep it within the Xiao bloodline.”

A puppet throne, then.

Shen coiled, thinking. Even as Yue’s grip tightened, he drove an elbow back—forcing him to stumble. Shen surged, throwing him down, straddling him.

The air split. The capital’s first noble heir, sprawled beneath the capital’s newest Secretariat official, both disheveled.

Yue Zhi, hair undone, eyes pale with ice, spoke barely above a whisper:

“You’d rather be the Emperor’s dog?”

Shen Qinghe pinned him fast, eyes like blazing fire.

“Yes. The Emperor honors me. If I must serve like a dog—better his, than yours!”

Footnote

1. Title “Am I supposed to be your dog?” (難道給你當狗啊) — a sharp retort, echoing Chinese idioms of loyalty and servitude. Shen Qinghe declares his allegiance is his to choose, not to be commandeered by Yue Zhi’s manipulations.