The day was oppressively hot, the air saturated with an almost unbearable heat.
Cicadas had not yet begun to cry, but the midday sun already carried enough force to make the bluestone slabs in the courtyard of the Imperial Censorate feel slightly warm underfoot. Outside the walls, a row of ancient locust trees had their leaves curled at the edges from the heat. When the wind passed through, they rustled softly, scattering shadows across the ground like broken gold.
The office of the Henan Circuit Supervisory Censorate was located in the westernmost third courtyard, next to the archival storehouse. The gate was usually half-open. Stepping inside, one could smell the lingering scent of old ink mixed with mildew from stored documents and the faint fragrance of locust blossoms drifting in from outside. The main hall was not large. On the wall hung a panel of “The Seventh Month” from the Book of Songs, written in regular script—formal and solemn. Half a foot of case files was piled on the desk, beside an inkstone and a cup of tea long since gone cold, a few residue flecks floating on its surface.
Ye Xian sat behind the desk. He wore a crow-blue patterned gauze daoist robe with a plain black outer cloak, and a rhinoceros-horn belt at his waist. This attire made him look far more proper than when he usually lounged in the Marquis residence, yet the same lazy air lingered about him. He leaned back in his chair, one hand supporting his chin, the other holding a brush suspended half an inch above the paper, unmoving for a long while.
He was looking out the window.
The window faced the rear gate passage of the Ministry of Personnel. From here, one could see the path officials used—not the main gate reserved for superiors, but the back gate where real business happened. Who met whom, who exited behind whom, who lingered a moment too long at the gate—all of it could only be seen from here.
A gray-robed steward was walking toward the rear gate, carrying an oil-wrapped bundle. Ye Xian’s gaze followed him until he disappeared through the doorway. Only then did he set down his brush, open a thin booklet from the lower drawer of his desk, and write a single line. His writing was light, almost as if he feared pressing too hard would pierce the paper.
When Xu Jingting pushed the door open, this was what he saw.
“Brother Ye,” Xu Jingting said casually as he sat in the nearby armchair, tossing a paper-wrapped snack onto the desk. “The sesame candy you wanted—from the shop in the south of the city. I queued for half an hour. Since when did you start acting like a child, craving sweets?”
Ye Xian did not look at the candy or respond. He closed the booklet, then paused before fully returning it to the drawer. His gaze drifted back to the window.
Ji Minzhong had just walked out of the Ministry of Personnel’s rear gate. Beside him was a blue-robed official. The two walked slowly, conversing as if strolling. Ji Minzhong’s purple sandalwood prayer beads rolled through his fingers, his face wearing his habitual gentle smile.
As they passed the corner of the archive storehouse, he suddenly lifted his head and looked toward the Censorate.
Ye Xian did not move. Their gazes met across the distance for two breaths. Then Ji Minzhong looked away, continuing on his way.
“This window is well chosen,” Xu Jingting said more quietly. “You can see him the moment he comes out. And he never avoids your gaze either. How long have you two been playing this game across courtyards?”
Ye Xian still did not answer.
Xu Jingting placed a folded sheet of paper on the desk. “You asked me to investigate. There’s progress.”
The report described the steward surnamed Wu—Wu An—who had served the Ji family for over twenty years, originally brought from Ji Minzhong’s hometown. He handled private errands: delivering messages, receiving items, meeting external officials. The gray-clad man seen at the back gate of Fuguang Temple was likely him.
After reading, Ye Xian burned the paper. Flames licked the edge, curling it into ash that drifted out the window. He brushed the remnants away with his fingers.
Xu Jingting continued, “The Northern Pacifying Marquis Mansion is also acting strangely. Zhao Jin has been on sick leave—no court attendance, no visitors. The household claims illness, but the Imperial Medical Bureau has no record of a recent visit. Either he’s hiding from someone, or waiting for someone.”
Zhao Jin… did not reply immediately.
Instead, Ye Xian picked up a brush and began writing a letter.
Halfway through, he suddenly asked, “What does the Ministry of War say about the old southwest grain records?”
Xu Jingting straightened. He reported that an old deputy had secretly copied transport documents. The records showed grain shipments to Yizhou had twice changed route; only the grain supervisor’s seal appeared—no joint authorization from the regional commander, which was required by protocol. Some supplies never reached the front.
The original documents had already been removed from the Ministry’s archives.
Ye Xian’s writing did not stop.
He stood, retrieved a black lacquered wooden box from the top shelf, and took out a yellowed ledger. It contained his father’s private wartime records. One page clearly recorded grain rerouted to Yizhou, lacking proper authorization, signed only by Ji Minzhong.
Xu Jingting looked at the page, then at Ye Xian’s hand. His fingers pressed firmly against the edge of the book, knuckles slightly pale.
The room fell silent.
Finally, Ye Xian closed the box and returned it to the shelf.
“Don’t mention this again,” he said.
He then shifted topics. “If Ji Minzhong files a memorial, he won’t target me directly. He’ll start with those around me.”
Xu Jingting immediately understood. “Miss Gu?”
Gu Jinzhao.
The Imperial Stable Office, though seemingly insignificant, controlled the distribution of warhorses to the southwest. If linked to the grain case, it would implicate her family.
Ye Xian explained calmly that Ji Minzhong’s method was always indirect: first the Stable Office, then gradually the Marquis household.
He assigned hidden guards to watch over Gu’s residence and protect her movements.
Xu Jingting left.
The room returned to silence. Ye Xian sealed a letter and stood by the window, letting locust blossom fragrance drift in.
At the same time, in the southern city, at Fuchun Zhai Fuchun Zhai, Gu Jinzhao had come to buy rouge.
As she selected a peach-colored rouge, she heard footsteps behind her.
Zhao Jin stood at the stairway.
He greeted her with a smile, speaking lightly and flirtatiously, though his eyes carried faint fatigue. After exchanging a few words, he lowered his voice:
“If others knew about your visit to my study last time… what do you think would happen?”
He left, loudly instructing his attendants outside as if nothing had happened, deliberately ensuring the street heard him.
Gu Jinzhao felt her back tighten.
Half an hour later, she returned to the Changxing Marquis Residence study.
Changxing Marquis Residence.
She recounted everything Zhao Jin had said.
When she finished, Ye Xian remained silent for a long time. He then calmly explained the entire southwest grain case—from wartime logistics, to missing seals, to possible embezzlement hidden under military merit.
Her grip on the teacup tightened slightly.
Finally, she asked softly, “What does the old Marquis’s private record say?”
He placed the worn ledger before her.
It clearly stated: grain rerouted to Yizhou, missing joint authorization, signed only by Ji Minzhong.
“This was my father’s wartime record,” Ye Xian said quietly. “It was preserved by old subordinates at the cost of their lives.”
When he looked at her, his eyes held a rare vulnerability—exhaustion layered with something almost fragile, like trust finally exposed.
Gu Jinzhao stepped forward and said firmly, “I won’t leave.”
Ye Xian silently reached out, not to touch her face or hold her hand, but to remove a stray flower petal from her shoulder. He placed it beside an old faded pouch on the desk—two fragments of time resting together.
Then he casually mentioned tea eggs his mother had overcooked.
Gu Jinzhao laughed, then left.
The next day, Ye Xian looked out toward the Ministry of Personnel again. Ji Minzhong walked out alongside Zhao Heng—the Northern Pacifying Marquis.
He opened a memorial draft and began writing.
Outside, locust blossoms drifted into the study, settling near his inkstone as cicadas finally began to sing.